The Grass Is Greener
by ScopesMonkey
Summary: Still dealing with Sibyl's death, Sherlock gets caught up in a complicated and difficult case.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N:** This is for so many people, but specifically **AGirloftheSouth **for the John stuff.

* * *

><p>John came home to an empty flat, which was unexpected if only because he hadn't received the flurry of texts from Sherlock that usually accompanied him having a case and wanting John's opinion on some detail or just wanting John to join him. Sherlock liked to try and wear down John's resolve, make him leave work early, and somehow counted it as a victory when John joined him after finishing his day at the surgery.<p>

John supposed Sherlock just saw it as a win that John showed up because he liked to be right.

If he wasn't on case, he may just be out – was he actually doing errands? That was probably a bit too much to hope for. If Sherlock was out shopping, it was likely for himself, chemistry set equipment or possibly controlled substances for his experiments or maybe even body parts.

One pair of Sherlock's always-polished black shoes was missing and his keys were not in evidence on the small table by the door, so he was probably out somewhere. John called out a hello just in case and received no answer, but checked the upstairs bedroom – Sherlock often ignored John if he was working up there.

He came back downstairs from the empty spare room and took off his own shoes before heading into the bedroom to change.

It felt strange to be home so early in the afternoon on a weekday with a legitimate reason. The water had been unintentionally shut off to the building in which the surgery was housed due to roadwork that had damaged some pipes and caused some minor flooding. Since they couldn't work without water, they'd closed early. John appreciated it – although he would have appreciated it more had Sherlock been at home to enjoy it with him.

Well, he'd change then text his errant husband to find out where he was. The promise of mid-afternoon sex would probably be enough to bring him back unless he was on a case.

John grinned to himself as he went into the bedroom and then stopped in mild surprise. The window accessing the fire escape was wide open, the curtains that framed it stirring lightly in the faint late July breeze. The air outside was warm, but the movement kept it fresh and pleasant.

John frowned at the screen had been carefully removed and set against the wall. He studied it a moment, then crossed the room and leaned out, glancing down and then up before pulling his head back in and glancing around. Nothing seemed missing, and if someone had broken in, they'd done a very neat job of it. Part of his mind leapt automatically to the idea that Sherlock had been kidnapped, but the army trained part dismissed that conclusion almost as soon as it was formed – Sherlock was stronger than he looked and getting a six-foot-two man out of a window and down a fire escape unnoticed would be difficult, especially if he were struggling. Even if he'd been unconscious, manoeuvring him would have been extremely awkward. And there were no signs of any struggle anywhere in the flat. Sherlock would have put up a fight if someone had tried to snatch him.

The logical explanation was that he had taken himself out onto the fire escape and since nothing was burning or even smoking in the flat, John suspected this wasn't because of an actual emergency. The doctor stuck his head out again; Sherlock wasn't down below, so he was probably on the roof.

That was strange – or it would be, if it weren't Sherlock. John had run across his fair share of roofs since knowing the detective. There was no reason Sherlock wouldn't go watch the city from that vantage point, and John was probably lucky he hadn't been dragged up there before on some attempt at a romantic gesture – a picnic, stargazing (nearly impossible with the light pollution in central London), or a shag, which John would have said no to anyway. He had no desire to be seen by anyone in any of the surrounding buildings and he couldn't imagine the roof was very comfortable for or conducive to that. Falling off and all of that.

He grinned and swung himself out easily onto the fire escape, still in his work clothes and stockinged feet, and climbed up quietly, shifting his weight slowly. Old training for moving stealthily came back to him with almost no effort. Sherlock hadn't known that John was coming home early and John wanted to surprise him. He so rarely got to really startle the detective that it may be fun, although he'd have to remember to duck in case Sherlock had his gun with him.

John took his time, wondering where Sherlock had stashed himself. The roof was flat but not built for use, and it was a general mess of pipes that had to ventilate out of the top of the building, the chimneys from the three flats and probably various pigeons. In fact, a pigeon sat on the parapet, eyeing John in its mad little bird way, and refused to fly away when he got close. City birds, too used to humans.

He came up to roof level, saw Sherlock, and stopped short.

For a moment, the detective didn't see him, sitting a short distance away, back against one of the chimneys – _the C flat_, John thought inanely – profile to John but his face slightly turned away. He had his knees drawn up somewhat, his left arm resting beside his left leg on the old blanket he'd spread out for himself, his right arm propped on his right knee. He was looking out toward the street, toward the city.

Sherlock was dressed in one of John's old t-shirts, a black one that John had vaguely noted was missing but hadn't really cared because he only wore it when doing heavy cleaning. It was so old he probably should have just binned it or turned it into dusters, but it didn't actually have any holes. Sherlock was also wearing a pair of his own jeans, but one of the pairs he used for his disguises on cases, John noted, not either of the good pairs he would sometimes consent to wear mostly for John's benefit. And his polished shoes, the pair that had been missing downstairs.

And gloves. Black leather gloves.

There was a cigarette burning gently between the index and middle fingers of his right hand and an open pack on the blanket beside his left.

John didn't know if he'd made a noise – a startled sound or a shift on the fire escape – but Sherlock stopped abruptly in the act of just starting to move his right hand up to bring the cigarette to his lips and his expression went rigid, cold. He turned his head enough to see John and there was panic and denial in those grey eyes. He looked hunted, trapped, deer-in-the-headlights, and John felt equally as frozen.

They stared at each other and John felt cold, wondering suddenly how long this had been going on.

Sherlock was wearing clothing he would not normally wear and gloves to keep his fingers from being discoloured from the nicotine. If he did this when John was at work, he had enough time to shower thoroughly, scrub his teeth and change into his regular clothing before John got home. And god knew Sherlock could afford to go to a dentist for those whitening treatments if he thought the nicotine was staining his teeth.

John swallowed and reminded himself to breathe.

"Why don't you finish that," he heard himself saying in a voice that sounded detached, not at all like his own, "and then come back inside?"

* * *

><p>It was the hardest thing he'd ever done.<p>

Harder than any of the criminals he'd confronted, harder than facing down Moriarty, harder than seeing John in a Semtex vest.

When John had left him on the roof, Sherlock had stayed frozen, caught, for several long minutes, his breath shallow, his pulse jumping, until the useless rush of adrenaline had subsided, dragging utter anxiety in its wake.

John was waiting for him.

Sherlock had never seen that look of sad disappointment on his husband's face before. Never that piercing. Never that hurt.

And Sherlock knew he'd deserved it.

He made himself put out the cigarette and tuck the butt into the pack, which he stashed with the blanket in the small hiding place he'd found on the roof, then wondered why he was even doing this.

John knew.

And then he forced himself to go back down, one slow step at a time, his heart hammering the whole way, screaming silently at himself for not having paid attention, for not having realized that someone was on the fire escape stairs.

For having lied.

Sherlock eased himself through the window and changed – he had no time to shower or brush his teeth or even wash his hands, which he did fastidiously despite the gloves, but at least he could remove the smell as much as possible for John's sake.

He lingered in the bedroom a few minutes – John had closed the door after coming back into the flat – then steeled himself and opened the door, stepping out into the living room.

John wasn't in there, sitting neither on the couch nor in his armchair, but was at the desk in his usual chair, elbows propped on the cluttered surface, fingers interlaced. He was staring at his hands.

No, Sherlock realized. He was staring at his wedding band.

Sherlock felt his mouth go dry.

_Oh, stupid, stupid_, he told himself. He should never have started again.

He should never have got caught.

"John, I–"

"Why?" John asked, cutting him off. He was immobile for a moment, then turned his head ever so slightly so he could just see Sherlock, who kept himself in the living room, standing next to his own chair, not wanting to risk further displeasure by getting too close. "Why?"

Sherlock opened his mouth but lost the reply – _why?_ He'd asked himself that and tried to avoid the answer because he hated it, hated the reason, hated the reality. He hadn't even really considered doing it, not until about four weeks ago when one of those crushing dreams had left him feeling out of sorts and edgy all day and some random stranger – a young woman in her twenties outside a café – had caught him staring at her as she smoked and had offered him one.

He'd accepted it without intending to and had taken her offer of a light.

It had made him feel somehow better the night his mother had died and the sensation had rushed back, that inhalation of nicotine and relief.

Then he had taken out some cash to buy a pack, telling himself he'd only smoke one or two, and had found himself a spot on the roof of their flat and had gone through the pack in three days.

He'd bought another and gone through it just as quickly.

It was less than he'd smoked when he'd been a smoker – when he'd been a smoker _before_, no sense lying to himself about it now – but more than he had in the entire time he'd known John. Up until Sibyl had died, he'd not smoked a single cigarette since shortly before he'd met the doctor.

"I–" he started to answer.

"Not why are you doing it," John said, not meeting Sherlock's eyes, his gaze falling somewhat to the right, on the coffee table or the floor just below it. "I can figure that out, Sherlock. I may not be you, but I'm not stupid."

He paused and raised his eyes now and Sherlock fought against taking a step back at the hurt in them.

Betrayal.

"Why didn't you tell me?" he asked softly.

Sherlock stayed frozen.

John waited a moment then sighed, shifting in his chair, rubbing his left hand over his face, his wedding ring gleaming once as it caught the light when he moved. Sherlock stared at it, wanting to sit down but also not wanting to move.

"I thought–" John began, shutting his eyes for a moment then reopening them. "Sherlock, I thought you were doing better. I know it's been a hard few months, but–"

_Eleven weeks, it's been eleven weeks_, Sherlock thought. _To the day._

"You play your new violin," John said, his voice still soft, almost distant. He gestured vaguely to it with his left hand. "You're yourself again on cases. You– yes, you seem sad sometimes still, of course, but– but you never said anything to me. How bad is it? Is it this bad that you needed to start smoking again?"

Sherlock wanted to reply, wanted to explain– but how? How to tell John that he was doing it because it _hurt_, that he hadn't wanted to tell John for the same reason? That it was easier not to voice it, to sit and let the smell and taste of the cigarettes he shouldn't have been smoking take away the memories? That he felt better when John didn't know because it made Sherlock feel as though things were normal again between them, something he could rely on, something he was used to?

"You'd have stopped me," Sherlock heard himself saying then winced. It was a stupid thing to say.

A deeper flash of hurt crossed John's features.

"Yes. Because you were doing so well. I know how hard it was for you, but you worked hard at it. And I'm a doctor. I know all of the health problems associated with smoking. I don't want you to have any of them."

_I don't want you to be hurt, I don't want to lose you._ Sherlock heard the unspoken words, saw them reflected in John's eyes.

John closed his eyes again for a moment.

"You didn't tell me, Sherlock. Why?"

Sherlock found himself at a loss for words again and John was looking at him with an even brown-eyed gaze but there was still hurt there, and so much disappointment.

"I know it's hard," John said quietly. "I know you miss her. I know sometimes it feels like too much. I've been there. I was there with Harry. But you got me through."

He paused and Sherlock tried to will him not to say anything more.

"Am I not enough."

It wasn't even entirely a question.

"No, John, don't," Sherlock said, finding his voice in a rush. "Don't–"

"You couldn't tell me," John said. "You needed to do this to deal with it, but you couldn't tell me."

Sherlock shook his head, squeezing his eyes closed for a moment.

"It was easier," he managed.

"Easier than saying 'John, I need you'?"

Sherlock snapped his eyes back open.

"No–"

"But it was," John said and it was not anger in his voice, but a crushing disappointment. That was worse. Sherlock wanted John to shout, to rant, to curse and yell, but the quiet, let down tone was like a blow with every single word.

John watched him silently for a moment, then stood, his movements slow as if he were stiff.

"I need to go out for awhile," he said.

"No!" Sherlock exclaimed, feeling a sharp and sudden panic. "No, John, don't. Don't leave me."

John held his gaze.

"I'm not leaving you, Sherlock. I'm going out for a bit. I'm going to Tricia's, so you can ring her if there's a real emergency, but I need some space for a little awhile. I'll be back tonight or tomorrow morning at the very latest."

"God no," Sherlock whispered. "John, I'm so sorry."

"I know you are. And I know you're sorry you were caught, too."

"I– no, stop, please, John. I love you."

"I love you, too, Sherlock. I'm not walking out on you. I'm just going out for a bit. I need– I just need some space."

He wasn't asking Sherlock's opinion or permission, not checking to see if this was all right. Just stating what he was doing.

That was even more gut wrenching and Sherlock's hands twitched, reaching instinctively for John before he could shut down the action. But John had seen it and stepped toward him, close enough so that Sherlock could feel his body heat. The doctor took his hands for a brief moment and Sherlock felt a flash of relief that made him feel weak.

"Just stay," he said.

"I'll come back," John replied.

Sherlock closed his eyes, fighting against shaking his head.

"All right," he made himself say. He'd brought this on himself and he knew John needed some time. Time to be more disappointed? He ached again for shouting and cursing, hot anger that had to burn off more quickly because it was brighter and more intense.

How long would this last?

How stupid had he been?

John kissed him lightly on the lips and had pulled away almost before Sherlock was aware of it.

"I'll see you soon," he said and walked to the door – still in his work clothes, Sherlock noted. He put on his shoes, gathered his keys, wallet, and phone, and left without another word, the locks clicking shut behind him, their quiet sound too loud in the silent flat.

Sherlock stared at the door for a moment, then sank into his chair, putting his head into his hands. He stayed that way for twenty minutes, arguing with himself, fighting, tightening his fingers in his hair to offset the craving, to try and reassert some will power.

In the end he lost and went back to the roof and smoked the remainder of the nearly full pack back-to-back.


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock lay awake, curled on his side, staring at the alarm clock in the darkness. It seemed like such a stupid thing to do. It also seemed that all of the stupidity that he had tried to avoid throughout his entire life had been distilled into a twenty-four hour period.

He'd been smoking, John had caught him smoking, John had left, and then Sherlock had kept smoking.

Finishing the whole pack had made him feel ill for two hours, compounded by the fact that he felt he could barely move for the lack of John's presence. Now he had no way of proving to John that he was quitting again. No package full of broken cigarettes of leave on the table, and he certainly wasn't leaving the empty package for John to find. That would only make things worse.

He'd missed John with every single breath that afternoon and evening and night. Sherlock hadn't known that missing someone could be such a devastatingly physical sensation – not until Sibyl had died. Now that emptiness was doubled with John's absence. It was too much. Somehow numbing and excruciating. He could hardly stand it. He _couldn't_ stand it.

He'd managed to force himself to shower to get rid of the smell, and to change. He'd binned the jeans and the blanket he'd used on the roof and run John's t-shirt through the laundry twice, sitting in the downstairs hallway in front of the dryer while the shirt had been in the wash, switching places once the shirt was drying. Mrs. Hudson had thankfully not come out during this entire time – or she wasn't at home. Sherlock had no idea and did not even care that he didn't know.

He'd folded the shirt very carefully but hadn't put it back in John's drawer. He doubted John would want it anymore, but didn't want to bin it, just in case.

Then he'd crawled into bed and curled up, hoping for sleep. He rarely used sleep as a release, even after his mother had died, because it was just as likely as not that he'd dream of her. This time, he wanted to forget everything and considered getting drunk but realized that would only make things worse if John came home.

_When, when, when_, he reminded himself. John had said that he would.

Sherlock had resisted calling and texting him. Each time he reached for his phone out of habit, he dragged his hand back, closing his eyes, focusing on his breathing. It was so difficult. He hadn't rung Tricia either, but it was easier to make himself avoid that – he had no desire to talk to her, because he could all too easily imagine what kind of reaction he was going to get.

He was not going to avoid that confrontation, he knew. But he could at least delay it.

Sleep had eluded him; whenever he closed his eyes, he saw John's face with that deep hurt and disappointment, and it made him bite his lip as if that could keep everything inside or erase it. He could feel that he'd worried his lower lip enough that it was raw and cracked, but didn't care.

What did it matter, if John was gone?

He told himself over and over that John was coming back because he'd promised he would, but he couldn't control the twisting fear that John would realize that it was just easier not to return home.

John had left once after a row to go to Sarah's and had turned up in a Semtex vest at the pool at midnight.

Sherlock knew that wasn't going to happen, but couldn't stop the anxiety. He'd hurt John and John had left. His traitor brain seemed happy to supply him with ways in which this could be made so much worse. He tried desperately to stop himself, but his mind subverted him, running liberally through dozens of scenarios from the mundane – John in a vehicle accident, struck in a crosswalk by a cab or a bus – to the ridiculous – John being abducted for some madman's plans again.

The reality, that he was at Tricia's just talking to her about this, was even worse.

Sherlock watched the minutes change on the clock in agonizing slowness, and July gave way to August. With every minute, every second, every heartbeat, he waited to hear the familiar tread on the stairs, the sound of the door opening, John's footsteps and movements in the flat.

But the minutes crept into hours and Sherlock kept staring at the clock, feeling a dull ache in his stomach.

He couldn't fix this.

Not without John.

At two twenty-eight the door opened, the sound of the locks as echoing as loudly as they had been when John left, and Sherlock stilled suddenly, holding his breath, listening. Of course it was John, and he heard the locks being shut again, then the faint shuffling of fabric as shoes were removed.

Sherlock bit his lower lip again, ignoring the mild pain. There was a moment in which John was divesting himself of shoes and keys and then footsteps again – on the stairs going up to the spare room.

Sherlock froze.

The empty space in the bed beside him suddenly seemed a yawning chasm. He felt the air in the bedroom pressing down on him as he tried to deny the sound of the bedroom door upstairs opening and shutting gently.

There were faint forgotten creaks on the floorboards as John moved in the unused room and settled onto the spare bed.

Sherlock stared blankly into the darkness.

John had kept his promise and had come home, but he may as well not have.

Without intending to, Sherlock curled further in on himself, the clock forgotten. He squeezed his eyes shut and wrapped his arms across his chest so that he was holding his shoulders and drew his knees up to his chin. He felt small for the first time since he'd had his growth spurt as a teenager.

Small and insignificant and useless.

He lay that way for a long time then raised his head again to check the clock. Opening his eyes made him feel raw and dry and moving made him ache.

It was four in the morning.

He unfolded his long limbs carefully and got up, moving silently through the flat to stand at the base of the stairs, staring up into the tunnel of darkness.

Six years and nine months ago, minus five days, he had stood in this same spot, making the same decision to go up. Then, he had been certain of what he wanted but not at all certain how it would play out, because it was John, and John was an endless puzzle. He had argued with himself, tried to talk himself out of it, had failed but had wanted to fail. He had gone up and woken John and changed their lives.

Had he changed their lives again now, only for the worse?

Sherlock hesitated before putting a hand on the banister, taking the steps slowly and quietly, avoiding all of the creaks from memory. John knew how to do this, too, but rarely bothered. Sherlock rarely bothered either. No reason to.

He pushed the door open and slipped inside. Part of him had intended to crawl in next to John – not to touch, not until John wanted it and said it was all right, but he desperately missed the presence of his husband sleeping beside him and it had been only a single night.

But John wasn't sleeping on one side of the bed as he had been all of those years ago; he was curled up in the middle. Not enough space for Sherlock to lie down without touching or disturbing him.

The detective stood in silence, feeling his heart break a little bit more, knowing he'd deserved it. He watched John sleep for several long minutes, listening to the regular and familiar pattern of breathing. Everything in him wanted to reach out, to climb in and curl up next to John as he did almost every night when he slept.

Silently, Sherlock crossed the room and leaned down enough so he could feel John's breath on his face, smell it. It smelled of nothing in particular – no alcohol.

Sherlock would have felt better if John had come home drunk on that ghastly gin he and Tricia drank even now because it was what they'd drunk in Afghanistan. But he hadn't been drinking. That made the situation somewhat worse. He'd been sober and talking to Tricia. Sober and disappointed.

Sherlock closed his eyes and drew away. He knew it was better that John wasn't turning to alcohol when he was upset, because of Harry's addiction, but part of him wanted John to do something stupid like Sherlock had. The same part that had wanted John to yell and curse and rant. The part that wanted anger and bad decisions instead of just quiet disappointment.

He went back downstairs and curled back into bed, closing his eyes.

When he woke up with a start, it was shortly after seven-thirty in the morning and the flat was silent. Not in the way it had been when John had been sleeping. He was gone now because he had work.

Sherlock lay still for a few minutes, then dragged himself up. He felt stiff and raw – dehydrated. Not good. The package of cigarettes combined with having not eaten or drunk anything most of the previous day made his mouth taste like ash: bitter and dry. He made himself go into the kitchen and fetch a glass of water.

There was an empty mug and an empty bowl beside the sink, a spoon lying forlorn in the basin, stainless steel against stainless steel. Sherlock stared at it in dismay; he almost always made breakfast for John, but had overslept and John hadn't woken him.

There was another mug of tea sitting on the counter, still full. When Sherlock picked it up, he could tell it had gone cold.

But John had left it for him.

Five and a half years ago, after the crash, Sherlock had taken to doing this to let John know he was home and sleeping. He'd leave his phone and a mug of tea on the coffee table for the doctor and John had drunk the tea even if it had gone cold. Sherlock had never asked why, but he thought now he understood as he sipped the room temperature beverage. Pouring it down the sink would be unthinkable. John had made his for him. It was a small gesture. Sherlock had done it for the same reasons five and a half years ago. To indicate that he was still there.

There was a note on the counter beside the mug.

_I'm at work. I'll be home around five. John._

Not "love, John". But he'd left a note, even though Sherlock knew that John had to work and what his schedule was. He thought of the tubes and delays and if they needed groceries or if they'd order in and then felt too tired to care. All he wanted was for John to come home so they could put this right.

So _he_ could put this right.

But he had no idea how.

He'd stop smoking again, obviously. Sherlock ignored the craving for a cigarette that the thought of smoking immediately awakened; he couldn't quit if he kept it up. Plus, he had no more cigarettes and didn't want to go anywhere to buy any. He didn't want anyone to see him. He didn't want to talk to anyone who wasn't John.

He remembered John bringing him cigarettes the night Sibyl had died and smoking only three of those. Should he be angry at John for helping him get started again? But no. He hadn't intended to start smoking again back then. He remembered Sam in their flat smoking one of those French cigarettes that Veronique smoked, trying to get Sherlock to associate the smell with someone who had attacked him. He'd offered to do the smoking for Sam, who had never been a smoker and clearly hated it, but Sam and John hadn't let him and it had been easier to resist anyway.

If he went out, he'd buy a package and smoke it. And he'd keep doing it.

Sherlock picked up the note and took the mug into the living room. He set the mug on the coffee table but kept the note with him as he went into the bathroom and fished out a package of nicotine patches. He didn't want to use them because it seemed somehow like cheating, like he was trying to prove to John he was quitting again. But he was going to need them.

He went back into the living room and applied two to each arm, hoping it would help. He settled into his chair, drawing his legs up, and sipped the cold tea. Sherlock kept the note on the arm of his chair and read it repeatedly, hanging onto the little bit of contact John had made. He sat, watching the hours slip past on the little digital clock on the DVD player, and waited for John to come home.


	3. Chapter 3

After four days, Sherlock could no longer stand it.

He'd barely been able to eat, doing so only when John was watching and then only in small quantities. He knew he'd lost weight but John had said nothing and no one else had seen Sherlock to comment on it. He hadn't left the house and had ignored all phone calls from anyone who wasn't John – and John hadn't called him while at work. This wasn't entirely unheard of, but he would usually send a text on his way home regarding take away or enquiring as to where Sherlock was. Now it was just silence, both in the flat and electronically. John hadn't posted anything on his blog either, which may not strike anyone else as odd. He did often went days between entries, especially if they were working a case.

And because Sherlock had been steadily ignoring all calls, there were no cases. Lestrade had called him several times and Sam had tried to call him too, probably on the DI's behalf. He didn't care.

It was enough effort to drag himself out of his empty bed in the mornings, fix John breakfast like he usually did, shower and shave and change, ensuring he wasn't always wearing the same clothes or staying in his pyjamas all day. When John was at work, Sherlock would sit in his chair and simply stare blankly at the wall or the dark telly screen, the hours slipping by.

He didn't know what to do.

It was maddening and terrifying. When he was uncertain about how to approach some problem that involved the tricky and sometimes tiresome puzzle that was human interaction, he asked John for advice. On those rare instances when he needed to know something about John he couldn't deduce on his own, he asked Tricia.

He couldn't talk to either of them about this. How to ask John to help him resolve the problem he'd created with John? He was sure that would only make things worse. He had no desire to speak to Tricia, who would be angry with him and disinclined to help.

Once he may have asked his mother for advice.

Now he couldn't and the fact that he could no longer speak to her lay at the crux of this entire problem. He hurt because he missed both her _and_ John, the two most important people in his life.

He supposed he could talk to Mrs. Hudson but he didn't want her knowing what he'd done, how bad things were. Let her assume he was consumed with work, too busy to be seen. That fiction was better than the reality that had him curled up in his chair, arms folded across his stomach, legs drawn up to his chest.

Sometimes he'd fall asleep in this position, only to jerk himself awake when the front door opened and John came home.

It was almost worse when John was there. Almost. When Sherlock was alone, the silence was his. When John was there, the silence was unnatural because it was _theirs_. They still spoke about small, regular things, like bills in the post and what would be for dinner, but that tended to be the extent of their conversations.

John seemed to be waiting for Sherlock to do something. Sherlock had put his considerable mental power to trying to figure out what, but had been unable to do so. It was maddening and made him feel ill. This was _John_. His husband. His best friend. He should _know_.

After four days, the loneliness that seemed worse when John was there felt oppressive and made him slightly nauseous. He was wearing nicotine patches too much now, even when he slept, which was in fragments at night and sometimes during the day. It was impossible to sleep properly without John in the bed beside him, without that familiar presence that had become as necessary as breathing.

John was still sleeping upstairs.

Four days after John had caught him smoking, the tread on those stairs made Sherlock break.

"Don't," he said, the words out of his mouth before he could stop them, before he'd properly thought them. "John, don't go upstairs. I can't stand sleeping without you."

He held his breath suddenly, turning his head ever so slightly to see John stopped on the stairs, right foot on the second one, left foot on the first, a hand on the banister. The doctor was still for a moment and Sherlock was certain his heart was going to stop beating if John continued up the stairs. He knew he wouldn't be able to take that explicit rejection.

But John turned, his expression unreadable, and nodded.

"All right," he said. His voice was flat, as closed as his expression, and Sherlock wanted to rail against that – how could _he_, Sherlock Holmes, not be able to judge someone's body language and tone? How could it be so hard? How could John be keeping so much from him?

John came back down the stairs and Sherlock exhaled in a rush, relief so strong washing through him that he felt light-headed and faint. He closed his eyes, feeling the muscles around his eyes and lips tighten, pulling slightly.

John was silent a moment, then said simply:

"I'm going to bed."

Sherlock managed a nod. He listened as John went into their bedroom and shut the door behind him and wondered if he could move now for the relief. He stayed where he was for several long minutes, just focusing on his breathing, trying to get the adrenaline rush to abate.

He got slowly to his feet, stiff from days of inactivity, lethargic from the lack of food and the constant tension. Sherlock fairly crept into their bedroom to find John already in bed, on his right side, back to Sherlock's spot. This wasn't unusual and they often slept with Sherlock pinning John, John's back to his chest, but he had the distinct impression this was a barrier now, rather than an invitation.

He put on a pair of his own silk pyjamas and slipped into the bed, relieved at John's presence, terrified of doing the wrong thing. The night was warm enough that John had kicked off the light duvet and was only using the sheet, and the window to the fire escape was open, admitting the gentle breeze. Sherlock had fixed the screen back into its place that first horrible day, wanting to seal it shut but knowing it had to be easily removed in case of an actual fire. He'd tried to devise some visual means of letting John know it hadn't been taken down again, but had been unable to do so.

He remembered standing in front of it for half an hour, his normally energetic mind blank and silent, offering no ideas.

So he'd left it in the end and John hadn't asked about it.

Sherlock lay on his right side, facing John, aching to reach out and touch him but not daring. He listened to his husband's breathing, that clearly indicated he was still awake. He was waiting for something.

But what?

"I quit," Sherlock blurted out.

"Did you?" John asked, his voice curiously flat.

Sherlock nodded, the fabric of the pillowcase rubbing against his hair and cheek.

"Yes. That day, John."

John was still and silent for a moment.

"How much of the rest of the pack did you smoke?" he asked after a long minute.

Sherlock caught his lower lip between his teeth – he'd desperately hoped that John wouldn't ask that, but hadn't really believed he'd avoid it.

"The whole thing," Sherlock replied quietly.

He saw John tense a bit then force himself to relax.

"Why?"

Sherlock closed his eyes. He did not want to answer that. He didn't want to talk about it. It was obvious anyway. John knew why Sherlock had started again; he'd said so. He could figure out the why for this, too. He was a smart man – of course he was, Sherlock would never consent to being with anyone who wasn't.

There was a change in John's breathing, a sigh that carried disappointment. Sherlock's heart twisted; he'd made another mistake. Before he could answer, John rolled onto his back, then shifted carefully onto his left side, adjusting his pillows to take some of the weight from his left shoulder.

"I'm sorry–" Sherlock started.

"Yes, you're sorry," John interrupted, not harshly but in that same flat tone he'd adopted, the one that was worse than any anger. "Of course you're sorry. You're sorry you got caught because it makes everything complicated. Sherlock, do you understand that I'm not angry at for you doing it? I'm hurt that you didn't tell me."

Sherlock closed his eyes and nodded; yes, he knew that. John was silent for a long moment.

"Why did you smoke the rest?"

"John–"

John cut him off again with a sigh, such a soft one, and Sherlock's eyes flew open.

"Why don't you trust me?"

The question made Sherlock's breath catch in his chest and he curled forward slightly, feeling as though he'd been punched squarely in the stomach.

It was John who should have lost the trust here. Not the other way around. It _wasn't_ the other way around.

"I do trust you, of course I trust you." _You're the only person I trust._

"No," John said. "You don't." Sherlock could hear pain slip into that curious flat tone, just for an insant.

"Yes," Sherlock hissed. "Yes, John, I trust you."

John was watching him with a level gaze but it was not cool or uncaring – Sherlock could see the hurt in his eyes, too, even in the near darkness of their bedroom.

"But you couldn't tell me you were smoking and now you can't tell me why you finished the pack on Monday." John's lips twitched minutely, but not in any sort of smile. "I don't mean you don't trust me with your debit card or your chemistry set equipment or on cases. I mean you don't trust _me._ When you were hurt, you lied to me. Why?"

Sherlock stared at John, lips parted, eyes wide. He managed to shake his head once – that wasn't it. Didn't John understand?

John gazed at him a moment, then sighed and closed his eyes, starting to roll onto his back.

"No!" Sherlock exclaimed forcefully, grabbing John's right shoulder, keeping him there. "John, I didn't tell you because you are the _only_ good thing I have in my life, how can you not understand that?"

John stared at him and Sherlock saw a flash of shock override the hurt for a moment.

"No, Sherlock, I'm not. You have your work, you have friends–"

"Because of you, because I know you," Sherlock interjected, shaking his head. "John, stop. When I'm with you I don't _want_ to be upset or dwell on my mother's death. I don't want you to have to be careful, to have to take care of me. I want things to be– normal."

John's lips twitched again and for a moment, Sherlock saw the ghost of a smile there at the word "normal". Then it was gone, and John was searching his eyes.

"It's not all good times, Sherlock," he said softly. "I never expected it to be – that's not how life works. That's not how relationships work. But if you don't let me see the bad things, then you're only giving me part of yourself. Would you want that from me?"

"Of course not," Sherlock replied hotly.

"Then why do it to me?" John asked. "What does it get you?"

_A smoking habit_, Sherlock thought dully.

"For better or for worse," John said softly. "You got me through things like this, Sherlock. Harry's death. Nightmares. My shoulder. The worst news from Afghanistan. But you won't let me do it for you."

"I don't want it to always be bad," Sherlock hissed.

"Do you think it has been?" John asked.

Sherlock parted his lips to answer but found his voice caught, and shook his head. No, of course it hadn't been. But it had felt that way since Sibyl had died.

"I just want – things to get better," he managed.

"They will."

Sherlock shook his head again, curling in on himself a bit more.

"It hasn't yet," he said, his own voice taking on that curiously dull tone. He felt suddenly numb inside, as if none of this mattered any longer. He hadn't wanted the atmosphere in their flat to be permeated by Sibyl's death. He wanted things to be normal again, to be the way they had been before. He didn't want John watching him carefully, evaluating his words and actions and expressions.

"But it will. It takes time."

"I don't want _time_," Sherlock snapped. "I want–"

"You want things to be like they used to be."

"Yes," Sherlock hissed.

"And you couldn't say that to me. You couldn't say 'John, treat me normally'. You couldn't do that. Instead, you started smoking and you didn't tell me. You lied, Sherlock. Because it was easier for you."

Unable to meet John's eyes, Sherlock nodded.

"Yes," he whispered. He was silent for a long moment and John was too.

"I want things to be normal now, John," he finally said. "I hate this." _It's killing me._

"So do I, Sherlock," John said and Sherlock raised his head quickly, hope flaring in him. "But it won't be normal, not for a while."

He felt his faint hope dashed and his heart twist again, felt cold and small and useless all over again.

"I quit smoking, John," he said quietly but with a definite urgency in his voice.

"It wasn't the smoking, Sherlock. You need to trust me."

Sherlock closed his eyes, biting down on the retort that he did, knowing John was right.

"And until you can, how can I trust you?"

Sherlock squeezed his eyes all the way shut, his left hand bunching into the sheet that covered the mattress as he tried not to gasp at that.

"I'm so sorry," he moaned.

"I know. It's a good place to start, Sherlock. But we have to go through this. We can't avoid it."

"I don't want to go through it," Sherlock said before he could stop himself.

"Neither do I," John said with a sigh. "But that's how it works. If we really want to fix things."

_If you really want to fix things_, Sherlock heard in the unspoken subtext.

He forced himself to nod.

"It'll take time," John said.

Time. Time for John meant something so different than for Sherlock. It had already been four days. Wasn't that time enough? How could it not be? It felt like an eternity.

"All right," Sherlock forced himself to say.

John sighed and was silent for a moment.

"Good night, Sherlock," he said, and rolled onto his right side again, facing away from his husband. Sherlock managed to nod, not trusting his voice, knowing John could hear the faint sound of his skin and hair against the pillow. John shifted around before settling down, then Sherlock very hesitantly reached out, putting his left hand on John's waist. It was barely any contact, and so much less than he wanted. He ached to wrap himself around John as he normally did, feel that warm and compact body encompassed by his, but he knew that was too much. He wasn't even sure he'd get this.

But John didn't brush his hand away. He didn't do anything to encourage the touch, but he didn't push it off, either. Sherlock let out a silent sigh of relief and lay awake, listening as John very slowly fell asleep.


	4. Chapter 4

He was trying to work but his thoughts seemed to slip past him and dissipate like mist. When he tried to catch them, to form them into something coherent, they were simply not there. Now and again, he still felt a flash of anger at the road workers who had damaged the water pipes and had ultimately got him caught. That lasted less than a second before he shook it away. He couldn't deflect the blame.

The sound of the key in the lock made Sherlock look up with only mild curiosity, because he knew it wasn't John. John was at work and unlikely to have another day cut short due to some minor catastrophe. He thought he should have been annoyed at the intrusion, especially since he didn't know who it was. He hadn't even heard anyone on the stairs because he hadn't been paying attention.

He growled, dipping his head into his hands, then recomposed himself the moment before the door swung open.

Sam let himself in, moving assuredly. Sherlock felt a stab of surprise and raked his eyes over the Interpol agent who was evaluating him with the same quick appraisal. Sherlock thought that was inappropriate; that was _his_ job, and Sam had no business being in his flat anyway. It appeared Sam didn't like what he saw because his eyes narrowed a touch and his expression darkened around the edges.

Sherlock resisted the urge to roll his eyes. He felt irritation replace the frustration at not being able to work and let it out a soft sigh between his lips.

"You don't have a key to our flat," he said bluntly.

Sam arched a light eyebrow and threw the deadbolt closed behind him.

"You gave me one so I could take care of your fish if you're away," he said and there was a slight mischievous gleam in his green eyes.

Sherlock stared at him.

"We don't have fish," he said.

"Yes," Sam sighed, crossing the room to sit himself on the coffee table in front of Sherlock. "I know. Mrs. Hudson gave me her keys."

Sherlock's eyes narrowed hard.

"Why would she do that?" he asked icily.

"Because she knows who I am – I make sure to talk to her every time I see her and ask after her sister. I told her I hadn't heard from you in over a week and I was a bit worried. She had no problems giving me her keys then."

As proof, he held up a set of keys that, indeed, belonged to Sherlock's landlady. Sherlock did roll his eyes now.

"I could have had the police break down your door," Sam pointed out. "I almost wish I did, because they'd have called an ambulance just in case. Sherlock, what the hell is going on? You look like shit."

"You break into my flat on the rather feeble basis that I haven't spoken to you in several days and now you insult my appearance. You're not earning any kind gratitude, Agent Mitchell."

He saw Sam's nostrils flare and felt a stab of fear and regret – he'd made another mistake, angered someone else. Sam's green eyes flashed but he smoothed over his expression with that blank look he did so well, then relaxed.

"You can snap at me all you want," he said almost kindly and the tone made Sherlock more irate.

"Sam, just leave," he sighed, glancing away.

"No."

Sherlock's eyes darted back to the younger man who was watching him with calm equanimity.

"What?"

"I said no," Sam replied.

"I could telephone the police," Sherlock pointed out coolly.

"Fine, do. I'll remind you I'm on a first name basis with some of the brass – one of the perks of being an Interpol liaison officer. They're not going to arrest me. You, on the other hand…"

"They can hardly arrest a man for sitting quietly in his own home."

"No, but some well placed calls, including one to Lestrade, could get you into a hospital overnight for observation, although given that John's a doctor, I'm going to guess you're not sick. Seriously, Sherlock, what's going on? Nine days I haven't heard a single thing from you."

"I'm not required to keep in regular contact with you. You're neither my minder nor my secretary. If I choose not to speak to you, that is my decision."

Sam laced his fingers together, resting his elbows on his knees, eyes flickering over Sherlock's face.

"Yes," he agreed. "Except that, since I came back to London, the only time you've gone more than five days without talking to me was when I was on my honeymoon and your mum died, which is understandable. You always want something, Sherlock, even if it's just to make sure Interpol hasn't put me back undercover somewhere and you'll never see me again."

Sherlock started and stared but Sam kept speaking.

"You think I don't know? You spend all of your time observing everyone else but never think about who might be observing you in return. Granted, you're much better at it and I'm not a genius, but nor am I an imperceptive idiot. I have training in this, you know. Pretty extensive training. And you're my friend. Why wouldn't I want to know things about you? Right now, I have to say, I'm not happy with what I see – a man who can't afford to lose even one pound and you look like you've lost about five. What's happening?"

_Four_, Sherlock thought dully.

"Nothing," he replied in a clipped tone.

"Bollocks."

"Nothing that concerns you."

"I'd have to say I'm pretty concerned when you look like death warmed over, Sherlock. When was the last time you ate anything?"

Sherlock shrugged one shoulder – it might have been at breakfast with John, but he may have just pushed his food about on his plate while the doctor ate. He didn't remember because it wasn't important.

He had hoped that when John had returned to sleeping downstairs again that things would begin to go back to normal, that John would start to trust him again, but John remained distant, closed off, as if waiting for Sherlock to do something. And Sherlock had no idea what. How did he regain John's trust? John, the one person left whom he trusted completely.

But John had said this wasn't true.

It didn't feel untrue.

He didn't know how to explain that to John, to get his husband to understand. Sherlock knew why John thought this, but he couldn't comprehend it. He knew he shouldn't have lied, but even during each careful step, it had not felt entirely like a falsehood. It had felt like he was sectioning off an unpleasant part of his life from the good parts, giving it only the smallest of spaces in which it could exist so that it could no longer overshadow everything else.

He became aware that Sam was no longer sitting in front of him but now in the kitchen, uninvited, pulling open cupboards and then the fridge. Sherlock turned his head toward the sound and simply watched; he could make out Sam moving about but didn't know what he was cooking.

He came back a few minutes later with a plate of beans on toast and passed it to Sherlock, who just looked at it neutrally.

"Sandra's the cook, not me," Sam said, half apology, half statement of fact.

"Not hungry," Sherlock replied shortly, a scowl flashing across his features.

"Eat it anyway or I'm not leaving."

"If I eat it, will you leave?"

"No."

"Then I see no reason to do so. The outcome is the same regardless."

"Don't make me cut it into small pieces and feed you," Sam said in a dark voice. "Because I will. You want to act like you're three and having a tantrum, I can treat you like that."

Sherlock's lips curled in distaste but Sam didn't move, standing in front of the detective with the plate in hand, a pointed look on his face. Sherlock wavered inwardly for a long minute, then sighed to admit defeat with bad grace and took the food. He ate slowly, glaring at Sam the whole time, but the Interpol agent just sat back down on the coffee table, seemingly unbothered by the fact that this was not an appropriate place to sit. He watched Sherlock eat as though keeping score.

"Good. Now tell me what the hell is going on. I know John's okay at least physically, because I checked."

At this, Sherlock's nostrils flared and Sam held up a hand to forestall any protests.

"_I_ checked, Sherlock. I didn't send one of my people round to check for me. I know how you feel about that because of Mycroft. I didn't let him see me, I just wanted to make sure he was upright and breathing and all of that."

"That was unnecessary," Sherlock snapped.

"Was it?" Sam asked, arching an eyebrow.

_I'd have called you if something had happened to John_, he thought, and then was surprised by the thought. He hadn't called Sam when Sibyl had died; he'd let John do it. But if there were no John… Sherlock gave himself a mental shake, unable to finish the thought.

"Did you two have an almighty row or what?" Sam asked.

Sherlock sighed, eyes flickering away, and he heard Sam echo the sigh but with a different tone and tenor.

"Really? All right, let's have it, what happened?"

Not "what did you do?" Sherlock noted. He was vaguely surprised by the lack of immediate judgement since he'd been heaping it on himself the past week and he was certain John and Tricia were as well.

"Nothing," he replied.

Sam snorted and the sound made Sherlock's eyes flicker back with irritation. Sam held his gaze hard, green eyes locked with grey and Sherlock scowled, trying to get Sam to back down, to let the matter drop.

"Believe me," Sam said softly, almost gently, "I've sat through worse with myself. You can't make me give up."

Sherlock's eyes shifted away then back and he expected triumph in his friend's expression but there was only patience. Nothing like the look Mycroft would have given him if he'd known; Sherlock was suddenly grateful he'd leveraged the cessation of surveillance years ago. He had no desire to explain this to his brother.

Nothing like the look he was sure to get from Tricia either.

So he explained in a flat, detached tone, keeping his voice level and his words neutral. Sam listened without interruption, his expression still without reverting to that blank look at which he so excelled. When Sherlock finished, Sam stayed silent, his eyes shifting away thoughtfully. Sherlock waited, forcing his hands not to tense on the arms of his chair.

"Well?" he finally snapped.

Sam returned his gaze.

"Do you want my advice?" he asked simply.

Sherlock opened his mouth to snap back a retort then stopped, realizing what had been asked. A lifetime of living under Mycroft's overbearing good intentions made the question come as a surprise. In his experience, people were always willing to provide advice utterly unasked for and unwelcomed.

He closed his mouth again, hesitated, then gave a curt nod.

"Okay," Sam said, then looked away again, frowning. He was silent for another moment before looking back. "Is there anything else?"

"What do you mean?" Sherlock snapped.

"Is there anything else that you should be telling John that you haven't?"

"Why would there be?"

Sam just raised an eyebrow, his expression still fairly neutral. Sherlock held his gaze hard.

"No," he said flatly.

"Then you need to tell him that. Straight out. You can't just let him assume it, especially not now."

Sherlock stayed silent, glowering. He disliked that Sam was probably right.

"If you want things to go back to normal, it's on you," Sam sighed. "Don't just sit here, Sherlock. Go back to work. Do the things you normally do when John's at work because he doesn't need to know you're just sitting here all day. Then, when he gets home, do things with him. Talk to him. I'm not saying sit down and hash this out every night, but frankly, you're an expert in the silent sulk and it's really not his place to have to make things right. Pay attention to him."

"I pay attention to John all the time," Sherlock growled.

"And this past week?" Sam asked pointedly.

Sherlock glared and tried not to fidget. Now he just wanted Sam to leave again.

"If you want things to be the way they were, it starts with you. _Believe me_," he added forcefully. "I know. Listen, John loves you. He loves _you_, get it? The man who runs about like a brilliant madman. If you need things to be normal again, that's up to you. I know it's hard after something like this – I mean both the row and your mum's death. And things won't always be good; they aren't meant to be."

"That's what he said," Sherlock snorted softly.

"Well, he's right. He's a smart man. You wouldn't have it any other way. Stop waiting for him to give you clues as to what to do. You know what to do. You maybe don't want to do the work is all. Because it's hard and it's not fun."

Sherlock caught his lower lip between his teeth and sighed.

"And start eating again. I mean it. Or else I will keep getting on your case and I'll do it in my very specialized Interpol agent kind of way. John doesn't need to add worrying about your health to his list of things that concern him at the moment. You haven't been taking proper care of yourself, which started this whole thing in the first place. Don't make him work for it. That's your job right now."

Sam gathered the plate Sherlock had emptied and stood, going back into the kitchen and leaving Sherlock to consider his words. Sherlock heard the sound of the faucet being run for longer than necessary to rinse the dishes, then heard the faint click of the kettle being turned on. Sam was back with a cup of tea for him a few minutes later.

"All right?" he said, passing off the mug.

Sherlock took it with a faint scowl.

"All right," he muttered.

Sam nodded.

"Good. I'll talk to you in a few days and you _will_ call me, unless you want me breaking into your flat again."

Sherlock sipped his tea and didn't reply. Sam let himself out, locking the door again from the other side, and Sherlock listened to his tread on the stairs. A few minutes later, the front door open and shut again.

He finished his tea, forcing himself to think about what Sam had said even though he was inclined not to. The idea of putting in any effort right now was exhausting. What would John do? What if he dismissed any attempts to set things right as insufficient or just uninteresting? Sherlock could not even tell which was worse.

His phone distracted him and he pulled it quickly from his pocket, happy to see a text from John, then disappointed at the message.

_Meeting Tricia for coffee. I'll be home in a couple of hours._

Sherlock stared at it a minute then realized John would want him to reply. He wavered on what to say, wanting to snap back but that would certainly not help matters.

_Have a good time. I love you. SH._

John didn't reply again for a few minutes and Sherlock told himself this was likely because he was busy finishing up his work for the day. Normally he would not even notice the delay, but each second that slipped by came with a dull, constricting fear.

_Love you too_, John finally texted back.

Sherlock put his phone aside and finished his tea, returning the empty mug to the kitchen. He did the washing up Sam hadn't done, resting the dishes in the drainer next to the plate and cutlery Sam had cleaned. Then he cast around for something to do, wondering if something else needed to be cleaned. John usually knew, but Sherlock felt it would be defeating the purpose if he had to ask.

He managed to occupy himself for almost an hour with tidying random things while trying to keep his mind quiet. The silence in the flat was almost deafening and Sherlock refused to check the time repeatedly. John would be home when he said he'd be home.

His phone rang again and Sherlock snatched it out of his pocket then scowled, hitting the ignore button. He had no desire to speak with his brother. Mycroft would determine immediately that something was amiss and insist on coming round and making things all the worse with his presence.

A few minutes later, his phone buzzed with a text message. Sherlock checked it with a sigh, unsurprised that it was from Mycroft. But he thumbed it open nonetheless, because it didn't require him to respond immediately. Or at all.

It was a picture, which was somewhat surprising – Mycroft was usually not given to texting and especially not to picture texting. But the contents were not his usual fare, either.

It was a picture of a wall, someone's house and the house of someone fairly wealthy, judging by the painting hung on the wall, the skill with which it had been framed and the quality of said frame. The wall itself was painted an unassuming off-white, but someone had taken a blue permanent marker to it. The writing looked as though it had been done quickly, almost as an afterthought, but Sherlock doubted this, given the message.

The word "hello" was written in block letters above a brief sketch of two houses, the style Sherlock recognized easily even now. Two squares each topped with a triangle for a roof, smaller squares for windows, rectangular doors and chimneys with a squiggle of smoke emerging from them.

_Hello, Holmes._

He stared the picture a moment, then read the message Mycroft had sent with it.

_We have a problem._


	5. Chapter 5

Tricia was waiting for him when he got off work and she'd come from work herself, judging by her grey trousers, short-sleeved white blouse and the sensible black flats that she could wear all day on her feet. She raised a hand to shade her eyes from the sun when she saw him, even though she was wearing sunglasses, and John was struck for a moment as his memory overlaid an image of her standing the same way in Afghanistan in her fatigues, her helmet on her head, her medkit on her back, the Red Cross patch standing out in contrast to the dull earth tones of her uniform.

It had been so long now and he was so used to her in her civilian clothing that he sometimes forgot, then felt guilty about forgetting.

"Hi, John," she greeted him and he smiled, giving her a kiss on the cheek.

"Hi, Tee. How are you?"

"Good, glad to be finished up for the day; it was a bit busy overnight."

"Yeah?" John asked.

"A set of twins that needed to come by C-section – the mum was pretty upset about that and I don't blame her. We were on stand-by for a couple other potential problem cases, too, but they were okay in the end. Nothing traumatic."

No limbs blown off young men, of course, but what she meant now was no pregnant women who'd been in accidents or who were having mid- or late-term miscarriages. John sometimes wondered if she was happy having chosen a women's hospital. She'd said that she was sick of watching young people die and wanted to see people being born. But they still died, even here. Although he supposed if she was really through with it, she'd have quit being a doctor. Henry made more than enough money for them to live on his income alone. But he couldn't see Tricia ever giving it up.

John shook off those thoughts; he was in a maudlin mood today. Not surprising, really – he had been all week.

"How are you?" she asked.

He gave her a smile.

"Okay," he replied.

"Yeah?" Tricia asked.

"Yeah," John replied, shutting off his phone then slipping it into his pocket. "Come on, let's get some coffee and something to eat, I'm starving."

She fell into step beside him, adjusting the strap of her shoulder bag slightly.

"How are things at home?" she asked carefully.

John hesitated, then sighed, giving her a rueful look.

"Pretty much the same," he replied. She looked as though she might say something, but John shook his head. "I don't want to talk about it, Tee, not right now."

"You sure?" she asked.

John nodded.

"Yeah. But thanks."

Tricia touched his arm lightly, giving him a concerned look, but nodded.

"How's Jo?" John asked and Tricia grinned. He hadn't seen his niece since the previous week and he hadn't been in much of a state of mind to enjoy her company, although he thought he'd faked it well enough. It had helped to simply play with a three-year-old girl for awhile. He'd even read her a story and put her to bed that night before staying up and talking with Tricia. Henry had left them be for which John was grateful. He didn't feel like dragging his problems out in front of everyone.

"She's brilliant, as always. She keeps asking me when she's allowed to go back to the proper French school. I have her in a summer playgroup that's run partly in French but apparently it doesn't meet her exacting standards of the French government school."

John laughed. He had no doubt his niece was going to be bright – she already was. With her parents and the adults that surrounded her, this wasn't surprising. He was pretty sure that Sherlock was already teaching her to memorize the pattern of the streets and traffic lights in the blocks that surrounded her flat.

He shook off thoughts of his husband, not really shocked that he kept coming back to them. It had been a long week full of silences that weren't normal for them and John could tell Sherlock was really trying to figure out what to do. Normally he'd be the one to give Sherlock some clues about this sort of thing, but he felt no inclination to help right now.

John refocused on the present when Tricia led him into a café. The place was air conditioned far too much for his liking but there were several vacant tables outside and he left Tricia with his order while he claimed their seats. A few minutes later, Tricia joined him with tea and scones for both of them and John grinned.

"Don't suppose you have any of that gin in your handbag?" he joked.

She winked at him.

"Portland doesn't look so kindly on keeping alcohol stashed with your personal effects," she replied with a grin.

John laughed.

"A far cry from being able to leave it sitting beside your bunk, eh?"

Tricia scoffed.

"I could never do that because Jamie would always just come by and nick it."

"Yeah," John said with a grin, spreading clotted cream on his scones, "But he only ever did that so you'd have to find him and spend time with him."

Tricia stopped in the act of stirring sugar into her tea and looked at him quickly.

"Oh, lord," John said. "Tee, I'm so sorry, I thought you knew."

She put down her spoon and reached across the table, curling her fingers over his.

"I didn't know that, but it's okay. I'm glad you told me. It's nice to know, even now." She smiled, her expression softened, but there wasn't really any sadness in there. "It's been almost eight years, John. It's all right."

He sighed, still feeling mildly guilty, and squeezed her hand in return.

"No ghosts today," he said, raising an eyebrow.

"No ghosts today," Tricia agreed, giving his hand another squeeze then withdrawing hers and finished stirring her tea. John bit into his scone and shook of a silent reprimand to himself – he really didn't need to make himself feel worse than he already did.

"Jo wants you to come over and put her to bed again soon," Tricia said with another smile, this one brighter. "You've been voted 'better than Mummy' at doing the voices, although you haven't quite displaced Daddy yet."

John laughed.

"If anyone ever displaces Henry, I think hell would freeze over," he commented.

Tricia laughed.

"Well, give it another ten years and then it will be all 'God, Dad, you're _soooo_ embarrassing!'"

John chuckled and was about to make a remark about teenage girls when he heard his name being called. It took him a moment to realisz that it was actually him being addressed – there were no shortage of Johns in the world – and that the voice was familiar. He looked up quickly and found the person addressing him.

No ghosts today, indeed.

But Sarah wasn't a ghost, she was still there, real and smiling. John felt surprise flash through him and then he smiled back, waving her over.

"Sarah!" he greeted as she wound through the tables to join them and Tricia twisted in her seat to look up in surprise. Tricia knew who Sarah was, of course, but by the time Tricia had returned from her second tour in Afghanistan, John and Sarah had long since parted ways.

He hadn't seen her since then, he realized. Almost seven years.

And she still looked the same, as if the intervening time hadn't really touched her, maybe a bit around the eyes and the lips but not much more.

"John, how are you?"

"I'm good," he said. "Sarah, this is Tricia Remsen, we served together in Afghanistan. Tee, this is Sarah Sawyer."

"Yes," Tricia said, shooting John an evil grin. "I remember from your blog."

"Oh, the infamous blog," Sarah said with a grin of her own and John wondered if she still read it. He kind of hoped not, but he had no control over who read it. Half of Scotland Yard did, in part of keep up with what Sherlock was doing, but John kept writing anyway. He enjoyed it.

"You want to join us?" John asked. Sarah looked surprised a moment, then checked her watch.

"Yes, sure," she said. "I have some time. Let me get some tea of my own, won't be a moment."

John nodded and Sarah left. Tricia turned back to him, raising her eyebrows.

"Oh, for god's sake, Tee," John growled but there was laughter in his voice.

"I didn't say anything!" she protested.

"You never say anything," John said.

"Not true," she replied. John sighed and rolled his eyes, but she was right. She'd straight out told him to shag Sherlock the first time he'd told her he was interested in his flatmate. He was glad she didn't say so right now, though.

Sarah came back to join them and John was pleasantly surprised that catching up with her was enjoyable and not at all awkward. After they'd broken up, he'd wanted to remain friends but they'd drifted apart despite that, neither of them quite wanting to put in the effort. When John had got together with Sherlock, he'd been guiltily relieved that he and Sarah weren't really close because he hadn't wanted to explain that to her. He was also glad their breakup had nothing to do with Sherlock – well, not specifically. Sherlock had always been cool toward her as it was and, looking back, John knew why, even if neither of them had known it at the time.

Sarah did ask after Sherlock briefly and John lied and said he was fine and the conversation wound away at that point. He found out Sarah was married and had been for about four years now. John wasn't surprised – she was a wonderful woman and it was not astonishing to learn that someone had snatched her up when given the chance.

When she found out Tricia was a doctor, too, Sarah was delighted and their conversation turned to medical topics and the state of the NHS. John found himself enjoying the company immensely and felt a bit bad for forgetting how much he liked actually talking to Sarah. He realized suddenly that he'd have to tell Sherlock he ran into her – two weeks ago, he'd have mentioned it but more in passing and Sherlock probably would have arched an eyebrow in that dry, amused way of his and said nothing and wouldn't have given it further thought. John pushed down on an image of Sherlock from two weeks ago, because it was coloured by the lie. He'd seen precisely what Sherlock had wanted him to see, not knowing there was more there that Sherlock was keeping carefully concealed from him. John refused to get distracted by that awareness and refocused on the conversation, keeping his mood deliberately light.

After about half an hour, Sarah gave her apologies and said she had to go.

"Me too," Tricia said, checking her watch. "I need to collect my daughter."

John bid Sarah good-bye and she admonished him to keep in touch and he promised he would and meant it. When she was gone, Tricia gave John a quick look and he returned it with a quirking smile. She watched him for a moment, then nodded, apparently assured that he was fine after meeting a former girlfriend while things were not fantastic at home.

"Call me if you need anything," she said and John smiled again.

"I will," he promised, giving her a parting kiss on the cheek. John watched her go, then made his way to the tube station. His afternoon tube ride was a routine he half treasured, a small parcel of space between his work and his home, between two places where things could be busy and unpredictable. Now, he knew, it was a bit of a way to postpone getting home, since the trains were crowded at this time of day and prone to delays.

But he made it back to the Baker Street station in fairly good time and realized with a bit of a sinking heart that this disappointed him. Coming up the street to the flat, he turned his mobile back on. He knew Sherlock hated it when he had it off, but he hadn't wanted his outing with Tricia to be interrupted.

He fished his keys out and unlocked the front door, stepping from the warm air outside into the cooler air of the entry way. John shut the door again and locked it, then frowned as his phone beeped at him, indicating he had a message.

It was, in fact, a flurry of messages from Sherlock, which surprised him. His husband had been very reluctant to call or text the past week, as if doing so would cause more tension. John had to admit he missed it, even if he was still hurt and angry. Sherlock had had a tendency to message John with whatever came to mind, so that John would often find texts about needing milk, followed by texts suggesting what he'd like to do to John when John got home, followed by texts exulting or complaining about the results of some experiment, often within minutes of each other.

He had voicemail, too, probably from Sherlock, but he checked the texts first.

The first one was enough. It was a picture of a wall on which someone had drawn a crude message in permanent marker. Below the word "hello" were two childish houses, all boxes and triangles, complete with chimneys with squiggles of smoke. It took John less than half a second to work out the message.

Along with that, Sherlock had included the address and the message _Please come. SH._

It was enough. John was out the door again, slamming it shut behind him and wincing at the noise, hoping Mrs. Hudson wasn't home, then forgetting about that immediately as he hailed a cab.


	6. Chapter 6

John was surprised by the complete lack of police cars in front of the building when the taxi dropped him. The place had been cordoned off but instead of the cruisers with their flashing lights and the familiar uniformed officers, the building was surrounded by Royal Military Police vehicles and the perimeter was being guarded by Redcaps, all of whom eyed him suspiciously as he approached the barrier.

"Sorry, sir, no admittance," a sergeant said, holding up a hand while two corporals shifted their guns in a manner that wasn't threatening but which indicated it could become so very quickly, if John gave them any hint of a reason.

"Doctor John Watson," he said. "Let me show you my ID."

Now the two covering him did raise their guns, their eyes following his movements, their weapons steady. The sergeant to whom John had been speaking gave a curt nod, kept his own weapon down, and watched John intently. John moved slowly and deliberately, pulling his wallet from his back pocket and extending his driver's licence. The sergeant stepped forward, accepted it, and stepped back. He scrutinized it, then at John, before handing it back.

"Sorry, Doctor Watson," he said. "They've been expecting you."

_I bet they have_, John thought. It was a wonder Sherlock hadn't come storming into the café to get him or that one of Mycroft's cars hadn't rounded him up – because if it was Redcaps and not police, then Mycroft must have arranged it. This whole thing had started with Mycroft wanting Sherlock to look into the Murray case, after all.

At a gesture from the sergeant, the corporals lowered their weapons just enough that they could be brought back up at a moment's notice. John ducked under the barrier.

"Nash, take Doctor Watson up to the flat," the sergeant said. One of the corporals nodded and gestured for John to follow him. John drew a breath – it had been awhile since he'd been escorted by military police and never before in London. They'd accompanied his unit more than once, usually when treating or transferring an important patient.

_Bad day for remembering the war_, he thought, but shook it off. Nash was talking on his radio, alerting whoever was inside that he was bringing Doctor Watson in. A clipped voice gave an affirmative answer and John was surprised that Sherlock didn't instantly commandeer the radio to start yelling instructions at him.

But what could there be to do? Sherlock had texted him almost an hour ago now, and the fact that he'd stayed on a scene this long was unusual. Normally he blew through them like a whirlwind in a fitted suit and dark curls. Mycroft must be really upset for Sherlock to still be hanging about.

He tried not to stare as they were admitted to the building. It should have been less impressive than it was because he was somewhat used to the manor house in which Sherlock and Mycroft had grown up, but the opulence always managed to overwhelm him and he wondered if any of these people thought about what it was like to grow up in a normal house or flat furnished with a mix of new and old things, to not have staff and cooks and things.

He was transferred to another corporal who took him into the lift and rode with him up to the fifth floor. John wondered how many other flats there were in this building, and if those people had been evacuated.

"Stop right there!" he heard Sherlock yell at him the moment they were through the door. He halted abruptly behind the corporal, looking up. His husband was at the top of a set of curving stairs gripping the railing with nitrile-gloved hands and leaning forward. Mycroft was standing beside him, looking intensely displeased.

John looked away for a quick assessment of the scene – there was a body of a man lying at the foot of the stairs and he had either been pushed down the stairs or the impact of the bullet to his head that had clearly killed him had unbalanced him and he'd fallen. In a small flat, the stairs down which he'd fallen would have been a spiral staircase but space was not an issue here, so the stairs curved gracefully up to the second floor, not quite winding back on themselves.

John glanced to his right and saw the message scrawled on the wall and a young woman not in uniform examining it carefully. She was also wearing gloves, and would occasionally raise a hand as if the touch the image but not actually do so. John frowned, then placed her.

"Holly?" he asked.

She stopped and turned, then smiled. John stared at her a moment, taken aback by seeing the forensic artist here, but then realized Sherlock would have called her in.

"Hi, John," she said, giving him a bit of a rueful look and casting an uncertain glance at the body on the floor. She'd adjusted a lot in the two years since he'd first met her, but she was used to dealing with witnesses and victims, not corpses, and was clearly trying to ignore the body as best she could.

She turned away from John and the corpse, looking up the stairs.

"Sherlock, I don't know what you think I can tell you that you can't figure out on your own!" she called up. "I do sketches of suspects, not analyses of materials! I'm not a crime scene person."

"Anything you can tell me!" Sherlock replied and John saw Mycroft making his way down the stairs towards John although Sherlock hadn't moved.

John heard Holly sigh.

"It's blue permanent marker and it was done by a right handed person and judging by how dry it is, I'd say it was done this morning at the latest."

At this, Sherlock clattered down the stairs, overtaking his brother and bypassing the body, giving John an impatient gesture to join them. John stared – apparently any problems between them were forgotten. Then he huffed an irritated sigh at himself. There was a man lying murdered on the floor in front of him and the killer was someone they'd encountered before. He wasn't going to let Sherlock's deception go, but he could deal with the fact that this was not the time nor the place.

"And someone about five-ten, five-eleven," Sherlock said, standing beside Holly. "Look here, the pen marks are less certain at the top of the letters than at the bottom, indicating he had to reach because–", he held up a hand without touching the wall, "this would be a comfortable starting point for someone my height but the bottoms of the letters are smooth, indicating he was reaching less at the point. Anyone taller than him, closer to my height would show an opposite pattern. Same thing with the drawing of the houses; he starts at a comfortable height and has to bend over to draw the bases, so the lines are somewhat rougher. Right handed, yes, I think you're correct, because there's no smudging, although– John, could you do this without smudging?"

"If I held my hand properly," John replied. "Or wrote backwards."

"No, no hesitation on the wording. If he were writing backwards, we'd see more irregularities in the lettering because he'd have to think about it. This was done quickly and efficiently and he didn't have to concentrate. Look at the body, John, please."

John repressed a sigh and crouched down carefully next to the corpse. Mycroft was standing over him a moment later, extending a pair of gloves that John snapped on easily. It made it simpler to examine the corpse although he wished he had something to cover his mouth and nose – it was cool enough in the flat but the man had been dead the better part of the day. Since nine thirty-seven, if the broken watch on his wrist was any indication.

He was a mess. The blood from the exit wound on the back of his head had congealed on the carpeted floor along with what John knew were bits of brain matter. It angered him suddenly that no one had cleaned this up yet, that the man had been left lying where he'd died like some sort of sideshow exhibition.

"Shot at point blank range by a hand gun," John said. "He was dead before the fall, so he either fell when he was shot or he was pushed."

"Pushed," Sherlock said.

"What?" John asked, looking up. "How do you know?"

"He wasn't shot close enough to the top of the stairs to have fallen down them, or at least not that far on his own. He was deliberately pushed."

"Why would you push a dead body down a set of stairs?" John demanded.

"To send a message," Sherlock replied crisply.

"He shot a man in the head so he could say hi to you?" John snapped, anger flaring through him again. "Mycroft, what the hell is going on? Who is he anyway? Why am I here?"

"Benjamin Laurence, Minister of State for the Secretary of State for Defence," Mycroft replied in a hard voice.

John looked up at his brother-in-law again quickly, noting the anger in his eyes he hadn't spotted before and realized suddenly why Mycroft was here and why it was the Redcaps outside, not the police.

John looked down again quickly and checked the body for bruising, needle- or ligature marks or any other signs he'd been hurt or held before being killed.

"He was also friends with James Murray," Mycroft said.

John raised his head again quickly.

"Oh, you're kidding," he said softly.

"I am not," Mycroft replied. "Sherlock, enough. John, upstairs. This is why you're here. Ms. Adams, please stay down here if you would be so kind."

Holly nodded and John peeled off his gloves, leaving them beside the body as he pushed himself to his feet. He followed Mycroft up the stairs, Sherlock right behind him. John could feel his husband's presence and body heat and he expected to feel the light touch of a hand on his back, but Sherlock didn't get any closer to him. John couldn't tell if he was disappointed about that or not.

_Mycroft must know something's going on_, he thought with an internal sigh. Thankfully the case was taking priority at the moment.

It wasn't hard to peg where Laurence had been shot, given the splatter on the floor and the lower part of the walls, and Mycroft led them carefully around the worst of it. John wondered if they were contaminating any evidence or if there had already been a military forensic team here. Given that Mycroft seemed to have taken charge, he was willing to bet that Sherlock was the first expert on the scene and Mycroft was waiting until his brother was finished before letting anyone else have access.

Mycroft led them down a wide corridor with a Persian rug running its length then stopped in front of a door that was being guarded by another Redcap corporal. He gestured for John and Sherlock to go inside and John stepped hesitantly into the study and library, looking around, then turned back.

"Where's everyone else?" he finally thought to ask.

"Laurence was the only person who lived here," Mycroft replied.

"No staff or anything? In a flat this big?"

"No full-time staff," Mycroft said.

"We're five storeys up," John protested. "How did he get in here?"

"Sherlock?" Mycroft asked.

"Working on it," Sherlock replied, striding past John and heading for the windows. John followed him with his gaze, then saw something lying on a small round mahogany table next to a leather armchair. It caught his attention because it was the only thing that seemed out of place in a room in which everything else was neatly stored. Whatever else Laurence had been, he'd been organized.

"Yes, that's it," Sherlock said vaguely without looking back. John walked over to it and picked it up carefully. The paper itself was familiar, that same parchment-coloured stationery on which he'd been sending letters the last ten years.

On it, in pink pencil crayon, was a circle of carefully drawn roses. John stared at it, then look back up at Mycroft.

"A circle of flowers?" he asked. "A wreath?"

"A ring of roses," Sherlock corrected, drawing back from the windows and looking up at the frames with a pensive expression on his face.

John stared at the image again for a moment, then pressed a hand over his eyes.

"We all fall down," he muttered. "And he 'fell' down the stairs."

"Indeed," Sherlock said crisply and Mycroft shot his brother a dark look. John put the paper back down and tried to swallow on his anger at a killer who was taunting them with nursery rhymes.

* * *

><p>If he had expected Sherlock to be finished shortly after he'd arrived and Mycroft to let them go quickly, he was wrong. John didn't know how much time had passed but it felt like several hours as Sherlock combed the whole flat as thoroughly as John had ever seen him do and Mycroft had quiet conversations on his cell phone. Holly was dispatched in short order and John watched her go with no small amount of envy – the scones he'd had before coming here were a poor substitute to an actual dinner and it had been a long time since the hasty half a sandwich he'd had for lunch in between seeing patients.<p>

He listened with half an ear as Mycroft and Sherlock argued about something. Mycroft probably wasn't giving them all the information but that wasn't surprising. It was Mycroft, after all. John examined the body again but found nothing he hadn't seen before.

Finally Mycroft let them leave, sending them home in one of his cars. John settled in the back, grateful that the driver was removed from them by a pane of darkened glass. He sank into the leather seat and leaned his head against the headrest.

"Why this, why now?" Sherlock muttered to himself, stretching his long legs in front of him. "It's obvious why Laurence, but why wait? Why delay? The timing must be important – it always has been in the past."

"What do you mean, why wait?" John murmured. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Sherlock give him a sharp glance.

"Weren't you listening to Mycroft?"

"Not really, no," John said.

He felt Sherlock staring at him and turned his head enough to see his husband's grey eyes in the dim interior of the car. Although the sun was still up, the darkly tinted windows made the passenger seats feel like a small private world.

"Laurence was rather vocal about delaying the vote given the reason for Murray's absence in April," Sherlock replied. "He was apparently quite displeased that it went ahead and spoke out to the press about it."

"Oh," John replied.

Sherlock stared at him. John looked at the roof of the car and sighed.

"Yeah, sorry I'm not that enthusiastic right now," he said, hearing the hint of sarcasm slip into his voice, unable to stop it. He was hungry, tired, and couldn't shake the hurt and disappointment no matter how distracting a murder investigation should have been.

He remembered Sherlock's face when they realized that the killer was giving them a choice between finding him and finding Kelsi Murray's body. And Anna Anderson's and Jon Kipling's. That complete impotent frustration. And then the way they all looked when they realised they'd been played and the killer had led them to the grave and had walked away just as unknown as he had been ten years previous.

He was just toying with them again. Probably not even with them, but with Mycroft. "Holmes" didn't have to be Sherlock, after all.

Sherlock fell silent as the car purred through the evening traffic. John closed his eyes, just hoping they'd be home soon so he could have something to eat. Probably nothing more than a can of soup. It seemed somehow fitting for the way his marriage felt right now.

"There's nothing else," Sherlock said after several long minutes. John frowned.

"You mean it was only Laurence who spoke out about the vote going ahead?" he asked with a sigh.

Sherlock didn't reply and John cracked an eye to see him looking surprised.

"No, John, I don't know. I meant there was nothing else that I was keeping from you."

John opened both his eyes now and raised his head. Sherlock was giving him an uncertain look and pressed his lips together. He hesitated, fiddling absently with the fabric of his trousers, before speaking again.

"Sam said I needed to tell you that."

John felt a flash of irritation and perverse amusement. Apparently it was full disclosure time to the point where Sherlock had to tell John who'd suggested this to him. He was annoyed that Sherlock had been talking to Sam about it, but realized that was not at all fair. He had Tricia to talk to and he had been talking to her a lot. It was unreasonable to expect that Sherlock couldn't get help from a friend of his.

John just wasn't feeling very reasonable at the moment.

He met Sherlock's gaze and held it for a moment.

"All right," he said finally, hoping Sherlock was telling the truth. He paused for a moment, then added: "I ran into Sarah today."

For a moment, Sherlock looked stricken, then smoothed over his features as best he could. John sighed.

"I ran into her while I was having coffee with Tricia. We chatted. That's all. I'm not about to run off and have an affair with her or with anyone. I'm not trying to get you back because that would be childish and unjustified. I'm not going to cheat on you because I'm angry at you, and you _don't_ have to think that you've got to accept it because you hurt me. It's not an eye for an eye, Sherlock. I'm just telling you because I think you should know."

Sherlock held his gaze a moment longer, then nodded and looked away. John had never seen his husband look so uncertain and chastised and was startled to realize he didn't really feel bad about it.

They spent the rest of the ride to the flat in silence and trudged up the steps together. John went into the kitchen immediately and made some soup and toast, setting half of it aside for Sherlock. He sat at the kitchen table and ate in silence, not surprised that Sherlock didn't join him. When he was done, he rinsed his dishes and went back into the living room.

Sherlock was not sitting in his chair but standing near the desk, fiddling with something from his chemistry set – John couldn't see what. He looked up when John came in and put whatever it was down on the table before crossing the room. John watched him with some surprise since he'd rarely seen Sherlock out of his armchair all week.

Sherlock stepped up to him until he was standing half a pace away and looked down, uncertainty scrawled all over his features. He searched John's face then raised a hand, hesitating before carefully touching John's cheek. When the doctor didn't pull away, he ran his thumb lightly over John's lips then dropped his hand, bent down, and kissed him softly.

John didn't move for a few seconds, then kissed back. They stayed that way, barely touching, barely moving, for a long moment. Sherlock pulled away carefully and met John's eyes again, then kissed him a second time. He deepened it slightly this time and John let him, parting his own lips a bit. He felt Sherlock's tongue dart over his lips, over the front of his teeth, but didn't give him any more access. Sherlock ran his tongue over John's bottom lip again then caught it lightly, sucking on it.

John shifted slightly and Sherlock moved minutely toward him. He felt Sherlock's hands on his waist after a moment, resting against his shirt just above his belt. They stayed there for a few seconds then skimmed very lightly upward, his fingertips tracing John's chest then the skin on his throat where his shirt parted and his flesh was exposed. He felt goose bumps at the contact but also felt curiously disconnected from it. A week ago, the sensation would have gone straight through him, making him want more.

Now he wasn't sure he wanted anything.

He moved closer and felt Sherlock's fingers undoing the first two buttons on his shirt. Sherlock pulled out of the kiss then kissed him again, lightly, before trailing his lips across John's jaw. John titled his head, feeling the fabric of his shirt pushed aside, feeling Sherlock's cool fingers against his skin. He closed his eyes, waiting.

_Come on, John_, he told himself.

It felt familiar and it felt good, but he didn't want it.

He searched for the feeling but his body seemed shut off. John pressed his eyes closed a bit more tightly, putting his own hands on Sherlock's hips, hoping that would help.

He _wanted_ to want it. He just didn't actually want it.

The realization made him snap his eyes open and he must have tensed because Sherlock stopped and drew away, searching his face, his expression questioning and vulnerable.

John inhaled deeply and reached up, wrapping his fingers around Sherlock's, drawing the detective's hands away from his body. He saw the hard flash of hurt and shock in Sherlock's eyes.

"I'm sorry," John said quietly. "I just– can't. Not yet."

Sherlock stared at him a heartbeat longer then closed his eyes. He gave a single nod and stepped back, pulling his hands lightly from John's grasp. They stood frozen, then John made himself say:

"Why don't you get a start on the case? Mycroft will appreciate your help."

Sherlock set his jaw and kept his eyes closed for several seconds, then opened them and nodded again.

"Of course," he replied and his voice sounded taut and raw, and John could hear the strength he was trying put into it. He felt a flash of guilt but it dissipated quickly; it wouldn't help matters to force himself to do something he didn't want to do, and Sherlock would have figured it out. And if he hadn't figured out until it was too late, he never would have forgiven John. They didn't need any more resentment going around.

"I'm– going to shower," John said. Sherlock gave another abrupt nod and John hesitated before making himself move away. He shut the bathroom door behind him, not bothering to lock it.

He stripped down and turned up the hot water as high as he could tolerate then climbed in. He immersed himself completely under the spray before leaning his head against the cool tiles on the wall, lacing his hands together on the back of his head and closing his eyes. John just stood there, letting the water pour over him until it went cold and he had to shut it off and get out.


	7. Chapter 7

The overcast skies gave way to rain sometime around midnight and it drummed steadily on the windows, rattling against the glass. From outside, the murmur of traffic was muted and Sherlock couldn't hear the sound of John's breathing from the bedroom where he slept. Not that he could have anyway; the door was shut and John was not prone to snoring, but Sherlock noted it now and felt its absence.

The yellow light from the lamp pooled on the table and mixed with the blue-tinted illumination from his laptop's screen and John's, making the darkness outside the windows seem deeper. Sherlock sat pushed back from the desk, palms pressed together, fingertips resting on his chin, and stared at the open book in front of him. He'd had Anthea deliver a new copy of Grimm's Fairy Tales and had been researching nursery rhymes online.

Without any success whatsoever.

Sherlock gazed at the open book, not really seeing the spread pages with the colourful images and his own handwriting already dominating the margins, not noticing when John's laptop screen went dark to conserve power.

Where was he leading them?

And there was no doubt they were being led. The man behind the killer, this puppeteer, was pulling their strings – but whose? His or Mycroft's? Both?

Where did the stories fit in? The nursery rhymes from this time and last, the fairy tales, even the legend of the Greyfriar's Bobby. In Edinburgh the stories had led them places – but not all of them. Was this ridiculous rhyme supposed to lead him somewhere now?

He flicked a finger across his laptop's trackpad to keep the screensaver from activating and glared at the browser page. There were several variations on "Ring a-Ring o' Roses", including in other languages. He read the German version and looked at the Gaelic version before reading its translation.

But which one?

He closed his eyes, fixing the most common version in his mind. A ring of roses, yes, that had been drawn on the letter, the one that was now spread out on the table above the book. And Laurence had been pushed down the stairs – "we all fall down", as John had said.

But could it be that simple? Given the choices, should he choose the most common? If so, what did it mean? Was it leading them anywhere or was it simply taunting them?

What if it were the German version? He'd considered in Edinburgh that the killer might not be British – and several of the fairy tales he'd used were German in origin. But the story about the Greyfriar's dog was from Edinburgh itself. The crooked man rhyme was English. 'Little Red Riding Hood' could be traced back to France and Italy. There was no pattern – and none of it necessarily even suggested a European. He could be from anywhere; these stories were not uncommon or inaccessible. And Sherlock was certain the killer was only delivering the messages, not planning their content.

_Where do you want us to go?_ he asked, opening his eyes again. The laptops and the book sat mutely in front of him, offering no answers. Sherlock had attempted to find some link to Murray but even if this were directed specifically at him, Mycroft had put guards on him immediately, before Sherlock had arrived at Laurence's flat. A quick argument with his brother had ensured the same security for Inspector Anna Anderson and her daughters in Edinburgh. They could take no chances.

He pushed himself to his feet, walking instinctively toward his violin before stopping short, tensing his muscles as he hauled himself back, eyes darting to the closed bedroom door. John was asleep. In the nearly seven years they'd been together, it had always been difficult to resist playing when John slept, sometimes more so than others. Now it seemed like sheer effort to distance himself from his instrument but, at the same time, part of him suddenly realized he could not stand to open it and see the small brass plaque with its heartfelt engraving from John.

Sherlock turned away, raking his hands through his hair.

They were being played, and not in the way Moriarty had played them, because Moriarty had wanted to draw Sherlock out and meet him. To encounter the enemy who was on his level.

Whoever was behind this didn't want to be found. He simply wanted to wreak havoc, to force them to chase him around uselessly.

Someone who knew how to elude Mycroft. The realization made him shudder.

He stalked back to the table, bent over the letter again, tried to tease some hint from its silent surface. It stayed resolutely the same.

The buzz from his phone startled him upright, the sound loud in the silence that permeated the flat, the same silence that seemed to have taken up residence over the course of the past week. Sherlock snatched up his mobile, unlocking it quickly, and a text message from a blocked number winked onto the screen.

_You've got the words a bit wrong._

Sherlock stared at it a moment, then sucked in a breath and hit the reply button.

_How so?_ he demanded, holding the phone between his taut fingers, waiting for a reply that did not come. He exhaled in a hiss and was crossing the flat before he knew it, pushing open the bedroom door, letting in a shaft of light that followed him from the living room.

John was asleep on his back and that very image stopped Sherlock in his tracks – since they had returned to sleeping in the same bed only a few days previous, John had slept on his right side each night – his back to Sherlock as a barrier. Now he lay on his back, his left arm curled onto his stomach, his right arm folded over his head, his face turned slightly toward the door.

Sherlock stayed frozen for a moment, everything inside of him urging him to put the phone down, to crawl in beside John, to take advantage of this. He took another deep breath and put the desire aside, crossing the room softly and swiftly, crouching down beside John.

"John," he whispered quietly.

The doctor stirred slightly, a soft sigh escaping his lips, but didn't awaken. Sherlock hesitated, then reached out with his right hand, resting it on John's chest above his heart, feeling the slow and steady pulse against his skin. He stared at his hand for a moment, then shook his head, refocusing.

"John," he said again, somewhat louder this time. "John, wake up."

John inhaled sharply and his muscles tensed. He reached up instinctively, curling his left hand over Sherlock's right, and Sherlock felt the cool kiss of metal from John's wedding ring against his skin. John half sat up, blinking and confused. Sherlock closed his eyes at the unexpected contact, pressing his lips together to keep them from trembling.

John's fingers tightened over his for a moment, then slid down, along the back of Sherlock's hand before dropping away to help push himself up. Sherlock removed his hand as well, opening his eyes again, meeting John's gaze.

"What is it?" John asked and there was genuine concern in his voice and none of the irritation at being woken that Sherlock had expected.

Sherlock extended the phone wordlessly and John took it, reading the message, his brown eyes widening in the near darkness.

"You have to call Mycroft," the doctor said, not even needing to ask who had sent the message. He put the phone back in Sherlock's palm, running his fingers over Sherlock's as he drew his hand away. Sherlock felt a faint shudder go through him and closed his eyes again.

"Sherlock," John said, patiently but firmly.

Sherlock snapped his eyes open, nodded, and called up his contact list. He thumbed through it for his brother's number, about to select it when his phone rang, startling both of them slightly with the unexpected sound.

Sherlock met John's eyes; the doctor had seen Mycroft's name light up on the screen.

"Mycroft," Sherlock answered, holding John's steady gaze. "He's just contacted me."

"And he's killed someone else," his brother replied, a sharp note in his otherwise overly patient voice.

"When?" Sherlock demanded.

"An hour ago," Mycroft replied.

"Text me the address. We're on our way." He hung up without preamble and pushed himself to his feet, John's eyes following him.

"Get up and get dressed, John. There's another victim."

* * *

><p>John was tired but hadn't complained, although Sherlock could see clear regret at the loss of sleep with a full day at the clinic looming in front of him. He had cast one enquiring glance at the doctor in the cab but John had only given him a tight smile and a brief nod. In the pre-dawn darkness, with the raining easing up and the orange glow from the street lamps, John's features were cast in shadows, illuminated here and there with bright lines at the angles – his cheekbones, his nose, the line of his forehead in profile. The smile he'd given Sherlock had been delineated mostly by deeper shadows caused by the shifting of muscles.<p>

Unsurprisingly, there was already a military police vehicle there and a sergeant and a corporal were establishing a perimeter around the house, moving with silent precision, speaking to each other only with gestures and nods. No lights were flashing, no attention was being drawn – at three-thirty in the morning, Mycroft was attempting discretion. There were no neighbours gathered around like there would have been if the Met had been called to investigate and a quick glance down the block with its darkened detached homes indicated most of the inhabitants were still safely asleep.

The sergeant examined their identification and let them pass. Sherlock saw John's gaze linger a moment. Did he miss this? Was he experiencing nostalgia or simply accessing memory? Sherlock couldn't tell and the realization made him suppress a growl – his attention was needed elsewhere.

Mycroft met them at the front door and Sherlock evaluated the house upon stepping in. A couple in their late fifties; married thirty to thirty-five years judging by the style of dress in the framed wedding photo that hung on the wall. Still married, given that the picture was still on display but a bit dusty – they were used to seeing it and used to giving it no thought. He thought suddenly of the framed wedding picture that sat in his flat on the small table beside the couch. How long had it been since they had cleaned it? He resolved to do so when he got home.

Three children, all adults now, and more photos in the corridor and in the stairwell going up to the first floor confirmed this. Two daughters and a son – the son was the middle child. Grandchildren from both daughters but not the son, although there was a framed photo of him on a small table in the corridor holding a tiny newborn baby – the first grandchild. Beside that a more recent picture of the couple with all of their grandchildren – a young boy, a toddler girl sitting on the man's lap, and a baby held by the woman.

A happy family by all appearances and perhaps appearances did not belie the truth here. The wife was not involved in this and nor were the children. He repressed a snort – not the grandchildren either, if only by virtue of their age. He glanced around again. The house well cared for: fresh paint on the walls within the last two years, clean carpets and floors, the oak banister had seen some dusting recently. A house that was well maintained and loved.

"Where?" he asked and Mycroft gestured up the stairs. From an unseen room Sherlock could hear the sound of someone crying. The wife was at home, then.

He took the pair of proffered gloves, snapping them on as he climbed the stairs. John was behind him, close enough that his presence was palpable. Sherlock ignored it, following Mycroft into the master bedroom.

The victim lay on his back, eyes open to the ceiling, blood soaked into the pillow and sheets and trailing down toward the floor. Not entirely congealed or dried. Mycroft had said an hour on the phone; his brother's assessment was probably correct. The victim was on one side of the king bed and the side closest to where they stood was untouched. The sheets were somewhat rumpled where the victim's movements in his sleep had disturbed them, but they hadn't been turned down.

"Where was the wife?" Sherlock asked.

"Just got back from Austria. One of the children lives there," Mycroft replied. "She's the one who found him."

"Who is he?"

"Arthur Kenton. Department of Environment, Food and Rural Affairs."

"Friend of James Murray's?"

Mycroft's hesitation was barely there but noticeable and Sherlock snapped his gaze to his brother.

"No," Mycroft replied.

"There's something you're not telling us," Sherlock said sharply. "Withholding information on a case like this, Mycroft? Do you wish me to make any progress or have you called me here simply because you think I might find this entertaining?"

Mycroft's eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly, displeasure flitting across his normally solicitous features.

"There is certain – sensitive information regarding this case that I've kept from you until now, yes. I'd rather hoped Laurence's murder was motivated by his friendship with Murray and his public denouncement of the refusal to delay the vote in April. This would have been far simpler for me– for all concerned."

"But it's not," Sherlock said.

"No," Mycroft said again, pursing his lips. He sighed and stepped fully into the room, shutting the door and then heading for the window.

"Leave it," Sherlock said.

"I cannot risk being overheard, Sherlock. I've had the place checked for listening devices but I won't have myself compromised by someone simply eavesdropping through the window."

"Then let me examine the scene first," Sherlock said. His brother stopped and gave a curt nod.

"John?" Sherlock asked and John stepped away from him, circling the bed carefully. He crouched down next to the body, eyes sweeping over it in an initial investigation. Sherlock joined him, evaluating the room, judging the distance from the open window to the bed, noting the footprints – one set heading toward the bed, still showing faint traces of dampness from the rain, another set overlying and obscuring the first, tinged with blood near the toes. Heavier marks than he would expect – not a heavy man; whoever did this needed to be agile enough to climb to get in through that window. Deep treads, so boots. Heavy-duty boots. Hiking or work boots.

_An odd choice for breaking in_, he thought.

"There was a security system panel on the wall near the door," Sherlock said. "Was it armed when the wife came home?"

"She says it was," Mycroft replied and Sherlock's eyes flickered to John, who was examining the victim's head carefully, fingers moving through the greying hair to better see the wounds. "She reset it when she let herself in."

"So our killer disabled it before entering then reset it after he left – possibly remotely."

"Yes. I've got Anthea checking with the security company to see if there were any external disruptions in the service."

"Assuming he doesn't know someone who works there who could have done it for him."

"Assuming that," Mycroft said, nodding.

"John?" Sherlock asked.

"Blunt force trauma to the skull," John replied. "An hour, an hour and a half ago. Looks like four or five good blows – whoever did this didn't pull back, didn't hesitate."

"He wouldn't," Sherlock agreed.

"Looks like something broad with an edge – not a hammer or the butt of a gun."

"May I?" Sherlock asked and John stood, stepping away. The detective pulled out his hand lens, smoothing one hand into Kenton's hair and pushed the strands aside with his thumb and index finger.

"Bits of white paint and… " He drew back carefully, pinching something carefully between his gloved thumb and finger. "A splinter of wood. Something broad with an edge made of wood and painted."

He glanced over his shoulder at John, who met his eyes squarely.

"A cricket bat," John replied.

"Precisely," Sherlock said, pushing himself to his feet.

"Is he a cricket player then?" John asked. "Those blows were certain – he'd have to be familiar with using it."

"He's a professional killer, John. Wielding a weapon like that, he probably only needed a few minutes to adjust to the weight and the grip before feeling comfortable enough with it to deliver blows like this. He may play cricket but I wouldn't count on it – not with his level of expertise. He's referencing the Murray case by using the bat."

Sherlock turned, indicating the tracks on the floor.

"He came in through the window after the security system had been disabled. No marks on the frame, nor is the screen ripped or broken, so he didn't a grappling hook, however, the tree outside is ideal for scaling and entering undetected. He took the time to remove the screen and replace it after leaving, which indicates he was confident in his work, quick but not rushed. He was wearing boots, something heavy, and given the size of the footprints – assuming he reflects the general trend and his foot length is approximately fifteen percent of his body height – he's five foot ten or five foot eleven. So, unless we're dealing with multiple men of the same height and skills, the same person who murdered Laurence."

He turned back to Mycroft.

"And now you need to tell us why."

Mycroft sighed and crossed the room, closing the window and then the drapes, blocking them from view. He turned back, displeasure colouring his features.

"You must understand what I'm about to tell you is highly classified. As of later today, expect your security clearances to be increased dramatically."

He paused again, as if hoping Sherlock would bow out and allow him to stop there. Sherlock kept his silence and John watched Mycroft carefully, waiting.

"Following the events in April leading to James Murray's absence from the vote and the recovery of Kelsi Murray's body, a committee was formed to investigate both the initial crime and the more recent circumstances in hopes of identifying why Murray was being targeted and to identify the responsible party. This sort of thing is not treated lightly, Sherlock. An MP has been harassed, threatened and a member of his family has been murdered in an attempt to bully him into compliance. This goes beyond pressure or even simple intimidation and has no place in a civilised society or in our government. Benjamin Laurence sat on this committee, as did Arthur Kenton. As do I."

Sherlock sucked in a deep breath.

"How many other people?" he demanded.

"Aside from myself, Laurence and Kenton, six."

"Then all of those people and their families are potentially at risk. You have to assign security to them, let them know of the threat."

"I've already done so – although we cannot risk telling the families of the committee members why they are potential targets. The nature of this committee _must_ be kept classified in order for us to have any hope whatsoever of identifying the guilty party. He's been operating utterly unknown for a decade now, which suggests to me that he was well placed and influential in political circles ten years ago. He will only be more ensconced now."

"What about Kenton's wife, then? She didn't know?"

"No," Mycroft said, shaking his head. "James Murray doesn't even know, although he will later today."

"I need to talk to her, the wife," Sherlock said.

Mycroft sighed again.

"Downstairs," he replied, leading them from the room and back through the house.

Kenton was in the living room, curled up on the couch, still dressed in the clothing in which she'd been travelling. An abandoned suitcase resting near the archway in the corridor. She'd slipped off her high heels which lay on the carpet and had her legs drawn up onto the white leather, feet tucked under her knees. A box of tissues rested on the arm of the couch beside her and her cheeks were streaked both with tears and faint black lines from her mascara. She was approximately five years younger than Arthur Kenton had been, Sherlock judged – or time had been somewhat more lenient with her.

"Mrs. Kenton, we need to ask you some questions, if that's all right," Sherlock said gently. He caught John's look of surprise at his tone but ignored it – she was not a woman who would respond to confrontation right now.

With a deep, shaky breath, she managed to compose herself somewhat, dabbing her cheeks with a balled-up tissue, and nodded.

"Yes, yes of course," she replied.

"What time did you arrive home?"

"Just before two-thirty," she said. "I remember checking the clock in the cab, thinking I haven't been out this late in years."

"And you were coming straight from the airport?"

"Yes."

"Which one?"

"Heathrow."

"Quite a late flight, isn't it?"

"It wasn't meant to be, not this late anyway. We were delayed leaving Austria because of the weather here. Heavy rains, they said. And then the traffic was slow going because of the rain. I remember– I remember being surprised when I landed that we actually made it in one piece, that we hadn't skidded off the runway, because it was absolutely pouring."

Sherlock froze.

"It was pouring," he said softly.

"Yes," she replied, nodding. "I thought that Arthur would be happy for the rain– they'd be good for the flowers…"

Sherlock closed his eyes momentarily.

"Sherlock," Mycroft said in a warning tone.

He snapped his eyes back open.

"It was raining. Pouring in fact. Again! And he didn't have to write anything down this time, oh no. I suppose that probably dismayed him but– oh! So obvious."

"What is?" Mycroft demanded.

Sherlock jerked his head toward the hallway and stepped out, aware that Kenton was in no state to hear this, not wanting to risk his brother's ire by explaining it in front of her, if only because then Mycroft would be inclined to be more obtuse.

"Nursery rhymes again, Mycroft; he's communicating to us in stories. He has been this entire time and this is no different. It's raining, it's pouring, yes?"

Mycroft stared at him and John gave a small groan, pressing the heel of a hand to his forehead.

"You're bloody kidding," the doctor whispered.

"Not in the slightest," Sherlock said.

"And he went to bed and bumped his head and couldn't get up in the morning," John sighed.

"Precisely. Mycroft, I need the names of the other six committee members, their families, and anyone else who may possibly know if their involvement in this matter."

"I told you, no one knows but us."

"Really?" Sherlock said, cocking an eyebrow. "Does Anthea know?"

He saw his brother start to answer "well, of course" then stop himself before giving a curt, displeased nod.

"If Anthea knows, then others know," Sherlock said simply. "The list, Mycroft, by nine this morning. If you want me to have any hope of solving this, I need you to cooperate. This goes beyond a personal vengeance."

"You'll have it," Mycroft promised.

"Good. John, come on, let's go. I think we're done here."

John nodded, heading to the door, but Mycroft forestalled Sherlock.

"A word with my brother if you don't mind, John?" Mycroft asked. John cast a questioning glance at Sherlock who nodded. He saw the look of displeasure flash across John's face but the doctor stepped outside, shutting the door gently behind him, and Sherlock heard his footsteps retreating down the path.

"Sherlock," Mycroft said in a low voice. "I need you at your best on this. If you require someone other than John to assist you, you need only say so. I'm aware things have been rather strained between you two and given the degree of intimacy you normally share–"

Sherlock cut him off with a growl, anger flaring in him, tensing his muscles, tightening in his stomach.

"How dare you?" he hissed, his voice low and dangerous. "How dare you suggest that to me, Mycroft? How dare you presume that this is _any_ of your business?"

"You're my brother. Of course it's my business."

"_No_, it most certainly is not! Nor are you welcome to make it your business based on what you evaluate from our actions during this case – which _you_ asked me to take, I will remind you. I'm well aware that you thought John and I would last no longer than a year at best and so, what? Are you feeling vindicated now? Would it make you happy to be right?"

Mycroft rolled his eyes with a weary sigh.

"Of course not, Sherlock," he intoned. "You assume I'd take pleasure in seeing your relationship with John disintegrate?"

"I don't care in the slightest what you find pleasurable and what you don't," Sherlock retorted. "If you want me to work this case, you will allow me to choose with whom I work. And you will keep yourself _out_ of my personal life and my relationship with John because it really, really does not concern you. The list, Mycroft. Five hours."

He yanked open the door and stepped out, shutting it again behind him harder than necessary so that John looked up from his position at the end of the walk, somewhat startled.

"Sherlock?" he asked as Sherlock strode toward him then past him, jaw set, eyes blazing.

"Come on, John," Sherlock snapped, giving an impatient gesture. He kept moving to put as much distance between himself and his brother as possible. "We're going home."


	8. Chapter 8

Now the flat was his again, the silence transformed from oppressive to productive. This was familiar and easily broken by the sound of his violin or the sound of his own voice as he spoke to the skull, chasing down ideas in his own mind, muttering to himself as he leaned over files or narrowed his eyes at information pinned to the wall.

Mycroft had made good on his word; in this respect his brother was trustworthy. Sherlock had been given files on the other six committee members, their families and their close associates, including their assistants. For the first time, he had a file on Anthea – Karen Johnson – that was legitimately obtained – although the information contained therein was no more than he'd acquired for her when she'd first begun working for Mycroft.

He'd moved his laptop and John's to the coffee table and spread out the files on the desk before deciding there wasn't enough room and clearing some space on the kitchen table as well. He'd taken the basic facts sheet for each committee member and fixed them on and around the doors between the kitchen and the living room so he did not have to move back and forth between the rooms on a regular basis. He'd also spread out a map of London on the floor and circled the residences they maintained when they were in the city. Not all of them represented constituencies in London, of course. One of them wasn't an MP but sat in the House of Lords, and Sherlock was unsurprised to learn that his primary residence was in Buckinghamshire, not far from where Sherlock himself had grown up. Another was from Wales, representing part of Cardiff. The other four were MPs for various areas in England. He'd dug out his map of Britain as well and circled their permanent homes for completeness' sake, although he strongly suspected that there would be no connection to places this time. The link lay in their participation on the committee that was investigating the threat against James Murray.

John had left for work at his usual time and Sherlock had refocused himself long enough to bid him a proper farewell rather than a distracted good-bye, sensing this would be inappropriate. He had also cooked breakfast as he normally did, making a particularly strong pot of coffee to go along with it. John's truncated sleeping time had left him looking bleary eyed even though he'd managed to sleep another hour or so after they'd returned home.

Sherlock paced the length of the flat then stopped and tilted his head back, tugging his fingers through his hair, exhaling a sharp sigh. He returned to the table and bent over the last letter again, eyes tracing the circumference of the ring of roses, taping a finger irately on the parchment-coloured paper.

He'd had Mycroft trace the number from which the text had been sent. It was no surprise to learn that it had been sent from a prepaid mobile that was most likely at the bottom of the Thames by now, or scattered about the city in pieces. The man was a professional killer; he'd not leave himself open to being traced.

But what had he meant? What words was Sherlock getting wrong? Which version of the rhyme was he supposed to be looking at? Where was it leading them? There were too many variables, both in terms of individuals and adaptations of the rhyme. It seemed the rhyme could vary not only from country to country but from person to person, depending on what one remembered learning as a child.

It was logical to assume the killer would strike at another committee member next because that had been his pattern so far. But he'd deviated from the pattern previously by kidnapping and murdering Kelsi Murray rather than going directly after her father. Each of the committee members had family – including Mycroft. Sherlock realised with some shock that he and John were probably back under surveillance and that Angela and David were most likely under guard in Edinburgh as well.

It could be anyone, anywhere, any time. There was no reason to assume he'd move quickly now, even though the first two murders had been less than twenty-four hours apart. He had them where he wanted them – they'd recognized the pattern and were trying to break it. He may be disinclined to provide more information now. Or he may keep up his current pace. Sherlock had no illusions that a man who could gain entry to the homes of two MPs in the space of a day without being detected at all could get past any security Mycroft could assign. He already had. He'd confounded Mycroft for ten years. He was not about to expose himself now.

He wanted their attention and he had it. And they were at his mercy.

Sherlock sat back with a growl. He had told John in Edinburgh that they would be at the whims of a professional assassin and his employer. He felt a flash of regret that he had not known then how true this would be months later. They had played his little game and ended up precisely where he'd wanted them: standing over Kelsi Murray's gave, not a single step closer to knowing who had killed her.

The craving for a cigarette was so sudden and sharp that it made him gasp, his eyes widening. Sherlock bit down on his lower lip and pushed himself to his feet, striding into the bathroom. He grabbed a package of nicotine patches and tore into it, pressing two onto the skin of his right forearm. There was no instant relief, no rush of relaxation that would have come with inhaling cigarette smoke, but he forced himself to stay crouched down and focus on his breathing for several minutes. The craving abated to the point where it was tolerable, and Sherlock put the box on the counter before going back into the dining room.

The light on his phone was blinking, indicating he had a text message. Sherlock scooped it up with a sigh – he had no desire to speak to his brother and Mycroft probably knew that and was resorting to texting him. He doubted it was John; they had fallen out of the habit of texting one another, although Sherlock sorely missed it. He realised suddenly he'd been waiting for permission to resume their regular communication again, but maybe John was waiting for _him_. He'd text his husband as soon as he'd dealt with his brother.

He unlocked the phone and opened the message, then took a step back from the table as if distancing himself would somehow help.

_Still haven't got it? Not the British version. Ring around the rosey, A pocket full of posies, A-hush-ya, a-hush-ya, We all fall down._

Sherlock reread the text message again, then started to reach for his laptop before stopping, frozen.

_A-hush-ya, a-hush-ya?_ he thought. _I hush you? We all fall down?_

He sucked in a sharp breath, feeling the silence of the flat pressing in on him, suddenly aware that he was alone, aware of the guards Mycroft must have posted. Acutely aware that the killer and his employer had been leading them every step of the way and that they both knew about the committee.

Which, according to Mycroft, was meeting to discuss the situation and how to best approach it.

All of them in one place.

All of them needing to be silenced.

His breath caught as his lungs constricted, a shock of cold coursing through him. The first two had been– what? A warning? A clue? A taunt?

Manipulation to get them all to the same place at the same time, to let them know they were being hunted, to get to them while they planned to keep themselves safe.

He rang his brother's number without hesitation, pressing the phone hard to his ear, cursing when the call went through to voicemail.

"Mycroft, it's Sherlock. Get out of the building. Wherever you are, get out. He wants all of you. For god's sake, call me back!"

He hung up and sent a text message then a second one, then rang Anthea.

"My brother, where's my brother?" he demanded before she could even greet him. There was a hesitation on the other end of the line and Sherlock snarled. "Karen, my brother! You need to tell me where he is _now_ and you need to get him out of there immediately. Right now!"

* * *

><p>He wondered what the public would think if they knew how much of their tax money was allocated to the purchase of tea and biscuits for committee meetings. Mycroft was certain they'd gone through half of their annual expenditure in this meeting alone – which had not been productive by any stretch of the imagination. Tempers that were stretched by Laurence's murder had snapped under the realization that it wasn't his friendship with Murray that had put him in the crosshairs, but his participation on the committee itself. Anger was being used to stifle panic, but not productively. It was astonishing how people could talk over one another and still understand themselves. It was less surprising that they'd accomplished very little and that two of the members now wanted to leave.<p>

_Yes_, he thought, _We should give in, shouldn't we? Bow to what is essentially terrorism, albeit a very focussed and specialized form of terrorism, directed only at us. _

Directed ultimately at the British government, too. He was not going to stand for this threat to the oldest Parliament in the world, not while there was any fight left in him whatsoever. He'd assured Angela and David's security in Edinburgh and knew that Angela could call in her own favours as well. He didn't worry about them more than necessary – after David's abduction, both Mycroft and Angela had invested a significant sum in increased protection.

He'd also put guards on Sherlock and John – his brother would figure this out in short order and probably identify all of them. Mycroft would count it as a victory if Sherlock didn't out them and start haranguing them in public about their job and his privacy. He was particularly concerned now with his younger brother's inability to be reasonable. This row with John was affecting Sherlock's judgment, whether he wanted to admit it or not. Mycroft knew less about this than he'd like but far more than Sherlock would want. Taking up smoking again and doing so without telling John… Mycroft was not unfamiliar with the need to keep secrets – and nor was Angela, which made everything between them much easier to navigate. John, on the other hand, had overcome trust issues after being sent home from Afghanistan and was one of those men who firmly believed in open communication with his partner.

Well, so be it. It kept Sherlock honest.

Except, of course, when Sherlock got it in his head to lie.

Mycroft sighed, shaking his head, dismissing these thoughts. Worrying about his younger brother was a full-time job – two, really – but he had more pressing matters on his mind at the moment. He pulled his mobile from his jacket pocket and turned it back on as he left the conference room. They had all agreed to cut off all communication during the meeting, because this made it more difficult to trace their whereabouts. But he needed to contact Anthea immediately to see if anything had come up during the course of the meeting. Thankfully, none of them had been murdered – that would have been fairly obvious – but there was still a risk to their families.

His phone chirped at him, indicating waiting texts and voicemail messages. Mycroft frowned. He called up the text messages and found a deluge from both Sherlock and Anthea. Alarmed, he opened the first one from his brother, certain something had happened to John Watson, then stopped short.

_Mycroft, get out. He knows where you all are._

Mycroft raised his eyes from the phone, evaluating his location. He was in the atrium of the building in which they'd met, one of the many that served to house offices for MPs or various government functionaries as well as meeting rooms and storage for forgotten records. A non-descript government building filled with non-descript government employees.

He was alone, he realized. Not alone in the atrium, but alone without any of his aides, without Anthea, without even a driver. The others had gone, all of them scrambling to get back to their families. He was isolated.

Mycroft looked around slowly, trying to identify anyone out of place. Various aides, assistants, and officials were crossing the tiled floor; hard soled shoes and high heels clicking loudly, voices rising and falling as they moved closer to him, then away. Some in pairs, laughing and chatting. Others on their own, looks of concentration on their faces, files in their arms or phones glued to their ears.

Not alone, he realized.

One of the others – McKinney – was standing off to one side of the doors, on his phone, half turned away from Mycroft, a concerned look on his face. He was nodding to someone on the other end of the line, someone who could not see him.

_Two of us_, Mycroft thought, suddenly cold.

And on the other side of the entryway, drawn into the corner of the doorframe, was a small ring of roses done in red permanent marker.

"OUT!" Mycroft roared. "Everyone out! _Now!_"

McKinney looked up at him quickly, stunned into immobility for a moment, then dropped his phone without question, breaking into a run as soon as he'd cleared the doors. Mycroft heard shouts and panic behind him but ignored them, racing through the doors and out onto the pavement, slowing for a precious moment and squinting into the dull sunlight that filtered through the blanket of clouds.

_Where, cover, where?_ he asked himself incoherently. Trees and benches: not good enough. There were several vehicles on the road parked just outside the loading zone in front of the building. He veered toward them with barely a thought, running faster than he had since he'd been a boy, dodging onto the road, ignoring the oncoming traffic. He dropped to his stomach and rolled under one of the cars, pressing his face against the asphalt, wrapping hands over the back of his head and closing his eyes.

There was white light, there was deafening sound and then there was nothing.


	9. Chapter 9

"There's been an explosion and Mister Holmes is missing."

For a single endless moment, John had thought the sinister, suited man meant Sherlock before realizing that "Mister Holmes" was reserved for Mycroft.

Sherlock was already there by the time John arrived. Following the sergeant who'd been sent to collect him where the car had dropped him off, the doctor was led past the military police barricade and the Met police cars with their flashing blue lights, toward the rubble and chaos that looked so familiar it jarred him. He felt dislocated in his own life for a moment, remembering so many similar scenes in Afghanistan– he could almost hear the distant _whump-whump_ of chopper blades in the sky. John craned his neck back and saw he was not mistaken. A news or police helicopter was passing overhead.

He refocused on the scene. Surveying the wreckage, blocking out the sounds of sirens and cries with practiced habit, he found Sherlock.

His husband had either been given or appropriated a hardhat, a high visibility vest and a pair of work gloves and was already knee-deep in the debris, his face and arms smeared with dust and sweat. The fact that he was kitted out told John how bad this was – he hadn't even bothered to argue, just taken the gear and put himself to work.

John accepted the same equipment from the sergeant, as well as two pairs of safety goggles. He put on his own, then picked his way with care to where Sherlock was labouring with a small team of rescue workers. He didn't even glance up when John arrived, but scowled and tried to swat John's hands away when John attempted to put the glasses on his face.

"You need these," John said gently, keeping his voice quiet and reasonable without being condescending. He'd used this tone plenty of times on wounded soldiers in Afghanistan, men and women who were in shock. And the signs of shock on his husband were clear. Clearer still was the fact that if he tried to stop him working it would be disastrous.

Sherlock paused, consenting to let John adjust the glasses on his face, then set his jaw and resumed his efforts. John drew a deep breath and joined him, taking direction from the rescue worker who was in charge of their small group. Whenever he could, he watched Sherlock's face and hands carefully, looking for any hint of unsteadiness.

When someone brought them water, he made Sherlock drink it, using the same soothing tone when the detective began to grumble and fidget impatiently.

"You need to do this," John murmured. "Or else you won't be able to keep working."

It was enough. Sherlock drank the water then tossed the bottle aside uncaringly, returning to shifting rubble around him. John finished his water and joined him, working side-by-side with him in silence.

He didn't need Sherlock to meet his eyes to know what written in them. As angry as he had been with Mycroft this morning – and for good reason, because John suspected Mycroft had tried to give some well intentioned but cocked up advice – they were still brothers.

Sherlock couldn't afford to lose another family member, not now.

Not like this.

John prayed like he hadn't prayed since he'd been shot, hoping like hell that a man as resourceful as Mycroft Holmes had managed to get himself somehow to safety and was not lying broken and bloodied under the remnants of the building that now surrounded them.

* * *

><p>John wasn't there, then he was. Sherlock had no idea how much time had passed – each moment existed only within the length of a breath, within the time it took to move a piece of debris, to clear one more small space.<p>

_Too late, too late, too late_. He heard the words repeated as a rhythm that matched the pulse of his own heart.

He'd been too late. Anthea had been too late. He didn't know where she was now – didn't care. Dealing with some aspect of the crisis. It didn't matter. The only important thing was finding Mycroft.

_Not like this_, he thought. _Not like this._ He realized he couldn't picture Mycroft dying, not ever, not really. Not under this mess of ruined brick and stone and concrete. Not here, not today.

They wouldn't win. They would _not_.

There was so much noise but it seemed distant, unreal, existing so much in the background that did not matter. Sirens, voices, horns, helicopters. The sounds overlaid one another and blurred into each other, becoming a din that could be pushed away. Occasionally the voice of the woman in charge of their small team cut through this and he acknowledged her commands with a nod, never looking up. Other voices came in and out, bringing more orders, giving details of how things were progressing elsewhere.

He didn't care, not unless they found Mycroft somewhere else. He had no idea why he was working here in this spot, they had simply put him there. It seemed as good a place as any. There wasn't enough data to make an accurate judgment as to whether somewhere else would be preferable. No one knew where Mycroft was. Sherlock tried to evaluate it, but it was impossible. Had he been inside the building in the blast? Outside? If outside, where had he been standing? Had he taken cover? Had he managed to deduce what the threat had been?

No information. No data. No Mycroft.

He remembered the last time he'd talked to his brother. Not earlier that day, not the argument they'd had about John. The last time they'd spoken when they hadn't needed to say anything at all, sitting in silence in the middle of the night. Sherlock had been curled up in the darkness on the stairs leading up to his flat, Mycroft had been in Edinburgh with Angela and David. They hadn't spoken because there'd been no need. They'd shared the same loss.

John put safety glasses on him and Sherlock tried to push him away. John's voice cut through the barrier, calm and assured, familiar and warm.

"You need these," he said. His words were gentle, not pushy, not condescending. Just stating the facts. He needed the glasses. They were uncomfortable and slipped on the sweat that beaded on the bridge of his nose and on his forehead. He had to stop every so often and push them back up, losing precious seconds. Each time it made him want to snarl and snap, to take them off and pitch them away, but someone would just come with a new set.

John pressed a bottle of water into his hands and Sherlock moved to throw it aside, but John's fingers closed over his wrist and hand, keeping it there. He had one of his own, Sherlock noted, as did the other rescue workers. Someone was talking to the woman in charge, something about the temperature outside and paramedics. Irrelevant.

"You need to do this," John murmured. "Or else you won't be able to keep working."

Sherlock glowered, but John held steady, putting his own water aside to snap the cap open on Sherlock's bottle. He picked up his own again and started drinking. Sherlock looked at the clear plastic bottle with its transparent fluid, then drank it in one go before tossing the bottle aside. He resumed working. After twenty-five breaths the others started back up, too.

It was endless but he would not tire. They would set up spotlights to work through the night when it came time. They would bring food for the workers. Someone would likely try to force him to stop, to rest or even to sleep. He would not. Those things were unnecessary, extraneous.

He would stop when they found Mycroft. Not a second before.

"Sherlock," John said. Sherlock grunted and kept working, eyes focussed only on the debris in front of him. One piece at a time. Evaluating the chaotic puzzle formed by the fragments of the building, judging which piece came next, how to move the blocks so that the structure would not collapse and pin anyone who may be trapped underneath.

"Sherlock," John said again, and one of his hands wrapped around Sherlock's. Sherlock shook him off and kept going.

He felt a hand on his face and scowled, reaching up to push John away, but the grip tightened and his chin was raised and his head turned so he was no longer looking at the remnants of the building around him, but past them. Looking up the street at the shattered shell of a car and a team of paramedics easing someone onto a stretcher.

Mycroft.

Sherlock yanked off the blasted safety glasses and clambered over the rubble, moving as fast as he could. He could hear John's harsh breathing as he sought to keep up but didn't slow his own pace. He cleared the worst of the debris and started running, scrambling between two ruined vehicles, nearly tripping on a bumper that lay on the ground, just managing to right himself.

"Stay back," one of the paramedics warned but he was ignored and shouldered aside. Behind him he could hear John say something about being a doctor. Sherlock's eyes scanned his brother quickly – he was unconscious and badly bruised, bleeding from several wounds on his head, face, and hands. His normally immaculate clothing was torn and singed. His skin and hair were coated with dust. His right shoulder was at a bad angle, likely dislocated, and the crooked set of his nose and the blood on his upper lip suggested it was broken. Sherlock could not make out anything else, not with the clothing covering the rest of Mycroft's body and the relief hammering along with the pulse in his ears.

Mycroft was breathing, shallow gasps, but breathing.

"John, I don't want anything to do with the NHS," Sherlock said, ignoring the paramedics altogether.

"We have to," John replied, his voice patient and gentle. "He needs an A&E."

Sherlock managed to glance over his shoulder at John, startled to realise for the first time that John was in search-and-rescue gear, partly hidden by his hardhat and his safety goggles.

"He won't be happy," Sherlock said.

"They can transfer him to a private hospital after. But we need to _go_, Sherlock. You need to let them take him."

"You can ride along," one of the paramedics said. Sherlock focussed on her, then gave a curt nod.

"St. Mary's," John instructed as Sherlock stepped away, letting them manoeuvre the stretcher through the rest of the debris to their ambulance, scrambling in the back after them, tossing his hardhat aside. John climbed in behind him, and Sherlock settled on a wheel well as they paramedics secured the gurney.

"John, look at him," Sherlock ordered, waving a hand, leaning back and closing his eyes. He felt the shudder as the ambulance was put into gear and they were inching forward with agonising slowness, the sirens wailing.

"I'm a doctor, trauma surgeon," he heard John explain as he closed his eyes and leaned his head back, the vibration from the engine humming through his skull and down his neck.

* * *

><p>John managed to get Sherlock calmed down at the hospital when they refused to let John himself take charge as Mycroft's doctor. He avoided having the nurses call security – but only just, he thought. Sherlock finally listened to him, reasserting some control with a significant amount of effort, jaw set, teeth clenched.<p>

John was surprised the nurses hadn't just called security upon seeing them – Sherlock looked like some vision from a nightmare; his clothing and skin were smeared, his face a mask of dust that clung to his skin and mixed with his sweat, leaving circles of white skin around his eyes that made his irises look even paler and more striking. His hair was flattened on top from the hardhat but curled around his ears and cheeks and along the back of his neck, streaked with soot. He had scratches all down his arms and several small cuts dotted with dried blood. He was still wearing the high visibility vest over a dark green silk shirt that was torn here and there, utterly ruined. He towered over the nursing staff, grey eyes flashing, expression indignant as he spoke with a deep snarl, his lips curling in disdain, his tone verging on the edge of snapping.

John eventually just dragged him into a bathroom and locked the door. He cleaned Sherlock's face and hands methodically, using the repetitive motion to get the detective to refocus, and made his hair look something approaching normal. When he was done, Sherlock was still standing taut and rigid, eyes flaring, jaw locked, but at least his breathing had slowed somewhat and he looked a bit more human. John cleaned himself off hastily and led them out again, finding a small waiting area that was tucked away, making sure that Sherlock heard him tell the nurses where they were.

"I'm going to get some water and something for us to eat from the vending machines down the hall," John said, taking care to be very specific. "You need to sit down."

Sherlock stared at him as though he was speaking gibberish, then gave a curt nod, folding his long body into one of the padded plastic chairs that were bolted to the floor around the edge of the tiny room. He sank his head into his hands and John waited a moment to make sure he wasn't going to collapse, then went for food and water. The selection of snack foods was dismal but he bought two bags of crisps and two chocolate bars in addition to the bottles of water. It was a poor supper at best, but he'd be lucky if Sherlock ate anything at all.

He was right – Sherlock set the food aside immediately without opening it, but he at least drank the water all in one go, putting the empty bottle beside the disregarded junk food. John drank his water more slowly and stayed standing, moving back and forth to keep the stiffness out of his legs and back. He doubted he'd have the chance to get in a proper stretch that evening and would be feeling the effects of the physical labour come morning.

Sherlock remained seated, pressing his palms together, resting his thumbs against his nose and his index finger against his forehead. He leaned forward slightly, his elbows propped on his knees and his eyes closed. John could see his eyes flickering beneath his eyelids and wondered what he was thinking, what rapid assessments he was running through in his mind.

As John finished his water and moved to put his empty bottle next to Sherlock's on the small table, Sherlock made a noise at the back of his throat and reached out, eyes still closed. John stepped in front of him without hesitation and Sherlock wrapped his arms around John's waist, pressing his face into his abdomen. John laced his hands into his husband's hair, holding tightly, then dropped one hand to the back of Sherlock's neck, squeezing lightly. He felt Sherlock pushing his hands under the netted material of his high visibility vest, fisting them into the fabric of his shirt and pressing against the small of John's back.

"Tell me," Sherlock ordered, his voice muffled against John's stomach.

"It all looked fairly superficial to me. Superficial for a bomb blast. I think he figured it out, Sherlock. He was on the far side of that car from the explosion and given the injuries to his face and hands, he was lying on his stomach with his face covered. Believe me, I've seen plenty of people hit by bomb blasts; I know what someone who knows the survival tricks looks like. If it was a low yield explosion, he should be in good shape."

"And if it wasn't?"

"Then a strong possibility of internal injuries that will require surgery," John said, not mincing words.

Sherlock nodded, eyes still closed, face still buried against John. John combed his fingers through his husband's hair then leaned down, pressing his cheek against the top of Sherlock's head. Sherlock exhaled hard and John could feel the warmth of his breath through his clothes.

They stayed that way long after John started to get uncomfortable, until the doctor came in.

"Mister Holmes, Mister Watson?" she said, looking between them.

"He's Doctor Watson," Sherlock growled, turning his face but keeping himself pressed against John. She nodded and John knew he'd get a better report on Mycroft's condition from her because of Sherlock's correction.

"Your brother will be fine, Mister Holmes," she said, fixing her dark brown eyes on Sherlock. "He was lucky – his injuries are relatively mild given the circumstances but he does need minor surgery. We need to put a pin in his right clavicle and some plates in his right forearm. We'll also need to remove some cartilage from his shoulder. We've reduced the dislocation but it won't heal properly if we don't take out some of the damaged soft tissue. "

"Whatever needs to be done, please do it," Sherlock said coolly.

"What else are we looking at?" John asked.

"Multiple fractures in his right radius and ulna, several broken ribs, broken nose, a hairline fracture in his right tibia, lacerations to most of his exposed skin, a concussion, and possibly whiplash, although we won't know that until he wakes up. And extensive bruising, including some deep soft tissue haematomas. Very likely some loss of hearing, although it may be temporary, and again, we won't know until he wakes up. He was lucky."

John felt Sherlock stiffen against him but he nodded, smoothing a hand in Sherlock's hair. That _was_ lucky. But he suspected Mycroft made his own luck.

"You're welcome to wait," the doctor said. "Although if you'd prefer to go home and clean up, you have more than enough time to do so and get back here before he wakes up."

John let Sherlock go when the detective unfurled his long body and pushed himself to his feet. He pulled out his wallet and snapped out one of his business cards, extending it to the doctor.

"Please call us when he wakes up," he replied in a cold voice. "I see no reason to wait here, not while there's work to be done. Come on, John. He expects us to stop now but I'd rather not give him the satisfaction. We're going to find him and we're going to put an end to this."


	10. Chapter 10

There were times when John worried that the surgery might get fed up with him and fire him for the amount of work he missed, but he suspected that Mycroft may have subtly exerted some influence in that regard. And, he supposed, an explosion that had injured his brother-in-law was a valid reason to miss part of one day and very likely the next.

Most of his energy was taken up worrying about Sherlock, however.

He'd been working all night with a frenetic energy that John usually associated with an adrenaline high that was about to crash. He'd seen it before, had gone through it himself – a post-catastrophe buzz made up of residual panic and the utter relief that things were all right, that he had survived, that everyone he knew was alive. He'd been watching Sherlock in this state for hours and it was making him tense. He could feel the muscles in his shoulders knotting, the scar tissue in his old wound protesting. That, along with the exertion of moving rubble earlier in the day, was going to make for a painful tomorrow.

John had managed to get Sherlock to shower and put some antibiotic ointment on the scratches on his arms, but that was it. Nothing else he tried on the detective worked, no admonishments to eat, no questions about whether he'd like a cup of tea, not even his attempts to stand in front of Sherlock and block him from prowling the flat. Sherlock would simply shorten his pace or move around John if possible. John could see the gleam in Sherlock's eyes that meant he had no interest in anything not immediately relating to the case.

John hated to admit to himself that this stung, just a little.

After a week of awkward silences, strained conversations and the hollow sensation that he was alone even when Sherlock was in bed next to him, John felt he should have welcomed this frenzied energy that was so familiar, so Sherlock-on-a-case. But he wanted some peace, a respite from the tension that wasn't just a different kind of tension.

It worried him, too, because it had a sharper edge than usual – Sherlock was never as good with the cases that involved a personal element. He'd seen that for the first time just over seven years ago, when he'd shown up at The Pool at midnight with Semtex strapped to his chest. Seeing that terrified dismay on Sherlock's face had been jarring, nearly stopping his heart without Jim Moriarty's help.

John was seeing that same shock now but it was transmuted into manic frustration rather than frozen horror. Sherlock had been working like a madman all evening, poring over the files that belonged to the other six committee members. He'd appropriated John's laptop so that the doctor had no means of assisting until Sherlock dumped a pile of files in front of him and told him to summarize the information about the committee members' families and the aides that they kept in their confidence. John had done so without comment but had worked slowly enough to keep an eye on his frantic husband.

Sherlock hadn't even stopped to talk to Anthea when she'd called, tossing his phone to John with an angry scowl. He relayed the news that Mycroft was out of recovery and doing as well as could be expected. He didn't miss the flash of relief behind the grey eyes but Sherlock just glared at the phone in John's hand, pointing one long index finger impatiently.

"Tell her to have him transferred to Princess Grace as soon as he's stabilized."

John repeated the information then rung off, returning to his work. Sherlock was muttering to himself about one of the other committee members. John couldn't catch his words, but watched as Sherlock flipped quickly through a file before moving across the living room to stand in front of the fact sheets, a pen flicking between his right index and middle fingers. The motion was agitated but he cut it off abruptly by raising the pen to his mouth and pressing the end against his lips.

John tried not to notice that he was holding the pen like a cigarette.

As if reading John's mind, Sherlock turned abruptly and went into the bathroom, coming back with two patches plastered to his right forearm. He went back to staring at the facts sheets and John got the sense that Sherlock was deliberately avoiding his eyes in that moment.

He jumped when Sherlock's phone rang again. His husband didn't moved.

"Want me to answer that?" John asked.

Sherlock only grunted, which John took as an affirmative. With a sigh, he picked the phone up off the coffee table and put it on speaker.

"Hello, Anthea," he said and Sherlock spun fast, eyes focusing on the phone with frightening precision. John saw the sudden tightness in his jaw and the minute loss of colour and felt the apprehension mirrored as a weight in his stomach.

"Is Sherlock there?"

"Yes, I'm here," Sherlock snapped. "What is it?"

"Information on William McKinney," she replied and John let out a slow sigh, sinking back against the couch cushions. Part of him kept expecting the worst, even though Mycroft's condition had been good for someone who had survived a bomb blast and the surgeries he'd required were expected and relatively minor.

"He's come out of surgery as well and just went into recovery. His surgeon expects he'll be in the ICU overnight. Then to a private room when he's ready."

"No, have him moved to Princess Grace as well," Sherlock ordered. "Keep them together and make sure the police and the MPs are sent with their ambulance transports and are stationed outside their rooms at all times. No one goes into those rooms without at least one MP escorting them, either. I want the same treatment for McKinney in recovery and in the ICU. In fact, two MPs at all times until he's transferred. Vet every single doctor, nurse, and orderly who might come into contact with either of them."

"It's already being done. I'll put through the paperwork for the hospital transfer."

"Call me when either of them are moved," Sherlock said.

"I will."

He nodded abruptly and turned away, apparently satisfied. John sighed quietly and rubbed a hand through his hair.

"Thanks, Anthea," he said.

"Good night, John," she replied with more warmth in her voice than he'd ever heard. He'd never actually heard so many words come out of her mouth – and in such a focused tone, too. He was used to the short distracted sentences that were her trademark. But tonight, if she was glued to her mobile, it was to arrange security and keep Sherlock updated, not to text or whatever it was she was forever doing otherwise.

He rung off and put the phone back on the coffee table and felt his head nod toward his chest. John dragged it back up and heard Sherlock click his tongue disapprovingly.

"Bed," his husband said without turning around.

"What?" John asked.

"Bed, John, go to bed. You're of no use to me if you're falling asleep over your work. I can manage without you."

John stared at the back of Sherlock's head. For a moment, he was tempted to stand and run his fingers through those dark curls but then the thought of getting up seemed too exhausting.

Sherlock turned abruptly and took one stride toward the couch. He bent down in a fluid motion and slung John's right arm over his shoulder before straightening and effectively pulling John up with him. John staggered slightly at the sudden change in position then found his feet. Sherlock gave him a cool look and led him to the bedroom, letting John slump to seated and crouched down, pulling John's shoes off smoothly.

"In," Sherlock said crisply.

"But you need my help," John protested.

"Your help, yes," Sherlock agreed. "Falling asleep and cracking your head on the table is not very helpful. I'll be fine."

"But you– and Mycroft– "

"Mycroft isn't in immediate danger anymore; Anthea will see to it that he's well guarded, and I imagine Angela will be in London shortly, if she hasn't arrived already. If Anthea misses anything, Angela will ensure it's done. And I'll be fine if you allow me to continue working to determine who tried to kill my brother."

John thought about protesting again but it came out as only a sigh as his eyes drifted shut. He managed to shuffle himself up onto the bed fully and lie down on his back. Sherlock pulled the blankets gently out from under him and then covered him lightly. John opened his eyes blearily and watched Sherlock watching him, still and silent for a moment before leaning down, pressing his lips gently to John's forehead, straightening again and leaving the room, closing the door behind him with a soft click.

* * *

><p>Sometime after three in the morning, John drifted awake again, biting his lip to repress a groan. The muscles in his back, shoulders, and arms were already complaining, limiting his movements as he pushed himself up to sitting. He grimaced and rolled his shoulders, which made him wince hard, then listened.<p>

There was no sound in the rest of the flat so he swung himself out of bed as quickly as his stiff body would allow and padded back into the living room. The lights were still on, both laptops were still open on the desk in low-power mode, their screens blank, all of the files and maps were still spread out everywhere.

And Sherlock was asleep on the floor, leaning against the couch, his head slumped against his right arm, which was bent enough that his fingers had curled into his dark hair.

If John thought he was feeling sore, Sherlock was going to feel so much worse if he kept sleeping like that – although he'd probably deny and ignore it.

John clicked off the lamps, keeping an eye on Sherlock to make sure the sudden absence of light didn't wake him. When the flat was bathed in darkness, he sat down on the couch, leaned forward, and wrapped his arms carefully around Sherlock's torso under his shoulders.

"Come on," he said softly.

"Hmnmhmm," Sherlock murmured in reply, his head dropping back away from his arm, his face turned toward the ceiling, his neck extended.

"I know," John whispered. "Come on."

He tugged and lifted lightly and managed to manoeuvre his sleeping husband up and onto the couch on top of him without waking Sherlock. The detective sighed and shifted and John repressed a wince – Sherlock was flopped almost entirely on top of him. John managed to adjust their positions so that he was more comfortable and worked his left arm between the back of the couch and Sherlock's body so he could rest it on Sherlock's back. He'd probably still lose all sensation in it, but at least this way he wasn't entirely pinned.

It wouldn't help his muscles come morning, he knew, but it would ensure Sherlock got a few decent hours of sleep. John closed his eyes, turned his face slightly so that he could feel Sherlock's hair tickling his nose and cheek, and drifted back to sleep.

* * *

><p>When he awoke again with a start, lifting his head before he was even fully awake, Sherlock was already up, showered, dressed, and back at work. He was sitting in front of his laptop with several files spread out around him and a cup of coffee in one hand.<p>

_At least he's drinking something,_ John thought, then blinked himself awake fully. He shifted then groaned, wishing he hadn't moved as his stiff muscles registered their protests.

"There's fresh coffee," Sherlock said without looking over. John wondered how much coffee had been consumed if he was using "fresh" as a qualifier – but he didn't seem to have the caffeine shakes and was firmly focused on his work.

"Thanks," John said. He stood slowly and half limped into the kitchen to fix himself a cup. It was sheer relief to lean against the counter and sip it slowly, feeling the heat chase away some of the aches in his muscles. Eventually he felt motivated enough to make some toast for himself. No chance of having Sherlock assume his normal breakfast duties, but John was willing to let it pass given the events of the previous day.

He sat at the kitchen table and ate in silence then tidied up his small mess before going back into the living room. Sherlock was reading something in one of the files, scrawling notes in the margins of the sheets, and reached out to snap his laptop shut when John came back in.

"Shower and dress," Sherlock instructed without looking up. "We're going to the hospital."

"Princess Grace?" John asked.

"No, St. Mary's first. I need to speak to William McKinney. He's still there."

"Why McKinney?" John asked and Sherlock raised his head finally. "I mean, not why do you need to talk to him, why him and Mycroft and not the others? What was it about both of them?"

"That's what I'm trying to find out," Sherlock replied. "Which is why we need to speak to him."

John sighed inwardly. McKinney wouldn't be in great shape but that was unlikely to stop Sherlock. It wouldn't stop the military police or the Met, either. He could tell Sherlock wouldn't be distracted from this.

He got ready as quickly as he could, forcing movement from his stiff muscles, but Sherlock was still waiting impatiently for him by the time he emerged from the bathroom. The trip to the hospital was fairly quick even in the morning traffic and, as they were arriving, Sherlock got a text message from Anthea informing them that McKinney had been moved from the ICU to a short term care ward while he awaited transfer to Princess Grace. McKinney's room wasn't difficult to find, guarded as it was by Redcaps and police constables. Sherlock consented to have his identification checked by both the guards in the corridor and the one inside the room. He endured with long-suffering impatience, rolling his eyes and exhaling noisily, ignoring the warning look John shot him.

McKinney was awake when they entered and looked worse for the wear, but probably not as bad as Mycroft looked, John suspected. His face was a patchwork of bruises and stitched cuts, as was the exposed skin on his right arm. His left arm was in a cast and his right wrist was bandaged. He had an oxygen tube running under his nose and the shallowness of his breathing told John he had at least one broken rib, probably several. Given that he was bruised and cut everywhere that was visible, the pattern undoubtedly continued under the hospital gown and the light sheet that covered his legs. He had a glassy look that John associated with a pretty serious concussion, which was no surprise.

There was a sophisticated woman in her sixties beside his bed – John put her at about a year or two younger than McKinney, but Sherlock probably could have given him an accurate count in months. She was well dressed in a sharp black suit, her grey hair pulled elegantly back from her face, but she'd been wearing the same clothes and hairstyle too long and looked like she'd been up most of the night. Her dark eyes narrowed at them suspiciously when they came in, but McKinney looked unsurprised after a moment of slow consideration.

"Mycroft's brother, right?" he asked, his voice weak and raspy but the smallest of smiles playing on his lips. John saw Sherlock stiffen slightly – he hated being relegated to that role. But he gave a tight nod.

"Sherlock Holmes and John Watson," he replied coolly.

"Yes, Mycroft's aide said to expect you sometime today. Your brother all right?"

Sherlock gave another curt nod and McKinney sighed, turning his head slightly to look at his wife again. He squeezed her hands lightly and managed another small smile.

"Get some breakfast, Mary," he said. "No sense in you feeling as bad as I look."

Mary put a hand on her husband's face, very lightly, and leaned over to kiss his forehead.

"Are you sure, darling?"

"It's just a few minutes," McKinney replied. "Take the Redcap with you."

"I'll be back soon," she promised and he raised one of her hands to his lips, kissing it lightly. "Please don't wear him out too much. He needs to rest."

Sherlock nodded and Mary left the room, her stride confident despite the obvious fatigue and the weight of the situation. The military police sergeant followed after a moment's hesitation and a glare from Sherlock, shutting the door behind him to give them some measure of privacy.

"Mister McKinney, I'm a doctor," John said. "Do you mind if I have a look at your chart?"

"Please," McKinney whispered, waving a hand, really no more then a small flex of his fingers. John crossed the room and picked up the chart from the end of the bed, eyes skimming it with professional ease.

"What's the last thing you remember before regaining consciousness here?" Sherlock asked. John glanced up from the chart, watching McKinney's face carefully. Surprisingly, the older man huffed a faint, dry laugh.

"Don't mess about, do you, young man? You and the detectives and the military police. I– was inside the building, I think. We'd just had a meeting. We– " he paused, clearing his throat then coughing weakly. Sherlock poured some water from the bottle beside the bed into a small plastic cup and held it steadily to McKinney's lips for the older man to sip. McKinney drank it slowly, then let his head drop back against his pillows with a sigh.

"I remember standing by the doors, inside. Then your brother shouting something, telling everyone to get out, I think. I didn't think about it. Just ran."

"Do you remember where you ran?"

McKinney shook his head slightly. Anthea had told them that he'd been found between two parked cars, in the opposite direction from where Mycroft had been recovered.

"How long have you known my brother?"

"Must be fifteen, sixteen years. Don't know him very well, though."

"And was it he who asked you to serve on the committee?"

"No. That came through more – official channels."

"How well do you know James Murray?"

"Not well at all," McKinney said, then gestured for more water. Sherlock gave it to him, waiting patiently as the injured man drank. "I think he and I have been on opposite sides for most issues."

"Yet you agreed to serve on a committee investigating a threat against him."

"Disagreement is the foundation of democracy, Mister Holmes," McKinney said and John heard a hint of strength in his voice when he said that. "We have every right to disagree. But this – this is uncivilized."

At this, Sherlock smiled slightly and John repressed a soft, derisive snort. While he agreed with that, he knew Mycroft sometimes saw the value in a well time assassination if it made things tidier. He often tried to ignore this knowledge; it was too frightening not to.

But Mycroft didn't support it this time. Not in this case.

McKinney closed his eyes for a moment and John kept a sharp and experienced eye on him. He was getting tired and the doctor doubted they'd have much more time.

"Do you remember anything else? Impressions, images, smells? Did anyone seem out of place or suspicious to you?" Sherlock asked.

McKinney managed another rasping chuckle.

"Young man, it was a government building. You could take your pick of suspicious looking people."

Sherlock's lips twitched again.

"Hay in a haystack," he murmured, echoing Inspector Anderson's words. John was surprised Sherlock remembered she'd said that; it seemed like the sort of thing he would have deleted.

"Your brother yelling – that's the only thing that stands out. I've never heard him raise his voice."

"No," Sherlock murmured in agreement. "He's very good at getting what he wants by pointed remarks alone."

McKinney managed another smile and his eyes fluttered. John could tell he was struggling now.

"Thank you, Mister McKinney. You should get some rest," he said. Sherlock flashed him a displeased look but didn't argue when John returned it with his best captain's glare. The MP nodded and closed his eyes, his expression relaxing into sleep almost immediately. John put the chart back on the end of the bed and followed Sherlock out of the room.

"Got what you wanted?" he asked when they were out of earshot of the Redcaps and the police.

"No. I did get what I expected, however. A hazy and inaccurate recollection of the events immediately before the blast."

"I'm surprised he even remembers that much," John said. "It's impressive – most people don't remember anything so soon."

"Do you remember being shot?" Sherlock asked bluntly.

"Yes, but it's been almost eight years. I didn't remember it very well immediately afterwards, either. He'll probably remember more later on."

"Then we'll talk to him again later on," Sherlock said, hitting the lift button impatiently. "At the moment, we're going to speak with my brother."


	11. Chapter 11

With the possible exception of Sandra, the quality of the staff at Princess Grace was far superior than at St. Mary's. The atmosphere here was quieter and calmer and the hospital's employees seemed to accept that if Sherlock were there, he had a right to be.

Of course, there would still be military and civilian police to contend with. His brother would not take these kinds of threats lightly. When it came to Mycroft's life, nor would Sherlock, although he would be damned if he would admit that aloud, even begrudgingly. Mycroft would never stop gloating.

They made their way to the lifts, Sherlock ignoring the twinges and aches in his muscles. Judging by John's stiff gait, he was having a more difficult time doing so and Sherlock hoped his husband's left shoulder wasn't bothering him. At any other time, he would have happily stopped what he was doing to work some of the stiffness out of John's muscles for him, but they were on a case. There was work to be done.

And, in the back of his mind, he knew that offering to do so now came with the risk of rejection. John might not want Sherlock to touch him, for all that Sherlock had awoken that morning sprawled on top of John on the couch. Waking up with John's face half buried in his hair and John's left arm wound round him had made Sherlock forget about the previous day's events for a few precious minutes. It had been tempting to kiss John – their faces had been so close together that it would have required almost no movement – but he'd held back. John had clearly needed the sleep and Sherlock had no idea how the doctor would have reacted.

The idea of John pulling away again, saying no, was too painful to bear. He scarcely wanted to imagine it. So he'd done nothing but get up carefully and go back to work.

He put these thoughts aside firmly as the lift doors opened. Despite the condition in which he was likely to find Mycroft, his brother would still pick up on any discomfort immediately. He hadn't forgiven Mycroft for his comments about John. About Sherlock, really. He knew where Mycroft was laying the blame.

He felt John's fingers curl around his – only lightly, only for a moment – as the lift doors slid open. It was enough to re-centre himself and he gave a curt nod of thanks. They stepped out and made their way down the corridor then Sherlock paused in mid-step. The action made John stop as well, turning back to glance at him curiously, but Sherlock kept his eyes on the young man standing in front of the vending machines.

More of a boy, really, caught in that cumbersome stage where he was no longer a child but not yet an adult, thin but with a hint of wiry strength that was masked in part by his slouching stance and the fatigue around his eyes. He was athletic and would never be bulky, but he would be tall. He hadn't hit his growth spurt yet but he was already above average height for his age. Sherlock remembered very well what that felt like – uncomfortable, awkward, clumsy. Playing sports would help, though – he had the wrong build for rugby but was well designed for football. The physical activity – which Sherlock had always despised as an adolescent – would make his height easier to bear, balance it out somewhat.

He had short, curly light brown hair and when he finally noticed them and turned, grey eyes that matched Sherlock's own met his gaze. Sherlock heard John gasp softly but only raised an eyebrow slightly. It took a minute for the boy to figure out who they were, but Sherlock had recognized his mother in those features instantly.

"Oh," David said. "You're Sherlock, yeah?"

He sounded far different than the last time Sherlock had spoken to him – gone was the terrified little boy and in his place was a tired and edgy young man. His grey eyes raked over Sherlock quickly – far too quickly to absorb anything of significance – then over John. He still spoke with a Scottish accent and his voice was a touch deeper. It hadn't changed yet, but it would soon.

"Hello, David," Sherlock replied, nodding.

The boy gave a dry huff, almost a chuckle.

"I was wondering when you'd get here. Dad thought you'd be waiting when he woke up, ready to ask all sorts of questions."

Sherlock felt John shift slightly in surprise but ignored this.

"Is he awake now?"

"Yeah. Mum's in there with him. I was just getting something to eat. Come on. I'll show you where."

He selected a Mars bar from the machine then turned and walked away, apparently not even considering that Sherlock wouldn't follow. Well, they were there to see Mycroft. It was a reasonable assumption.

"Christ," John whispered beside him, his voice loud enough to reach Sherlock's ears only. "Mycroft is 'Dad' now?"

Sherlock's lips twitched and he swallowed a chuckle of his own.

"God save us," John muttered and Sherlock rolled his eyes. He gestured with his head for John to follow and trailed David toward Mycroft's room and its contingent of military and police guards.

The guards let David pass without comment but Sherlock and John had their identifications checked again, both by the military police and the Met officers. While they were waiting, Angela emerged with her son. She gave Sherlock and John an appraising glance – Sherlock ensured she could read nothing in his expression but John was probably giving away any number of hints.

"I appreciate that you're attempting to find this assassin and the man behind him, but be aware that Mycroft is injured," she said, fixing Sherlock with a firm gaze. He nodded coolly and Angela put a hand on David's shoulder.

"If you need me, I'll be at his flat. He has my mobile number in his phone."

"Of course," Sherlock replied. Angela held his gaze for another moment, a silent warning in her eyes, then moved away, David with her. Sherlock glanced over his shoulder to watch them leave, then stepped into the room.

"You," he said to the Redcap inside the well appointed private hospital room. "Out."

The sergeant glowered and stood his ground and Sherlock heard his brother give a faint, rasping chuckle.

"Ever the subtle one, Sherlock," Mycroft commented dryly, his voice soft, weaker than it would normally be. "You can go, Sergeant."

The sergeant held Sherlock's eyes for a moment longer than was comfortable. Sherlock met the man's brown eyes effortlessly, keeping his gaze level and neutral until the other man's expression darkened somewhat. He gave Mycroft a curt nod and strode out. Sherlock closed the door pointedly behind him.

Sherlock's eyes flickered over his brother in rapid assessment. Like McKinney, Mycroft was covered in bruises and cuts. Most of the right side of his body was encased in casts; his entire right arm and shoulder and his lower right leg. He'd have bandages on his ribs and he had two strips of plaster across his nose. This prevented an oxygen mask, so he was wearing a tube that ran beneath his nose. Sherlock scanned the equipment monitoring Mycroft's heart rate and blood pressure, able to evaluate the readings thanks to his own time in the hospital following the crash.

Someone – probably Angela – had changed him from the hospital gown into a pair of pale grey silk pyjamas and he was covered with a crisp white sheet and light yellow blanket. Buried as he was beneath the covers and the equipment, he seemed almost small. It was the second time Sherlock could remember his brother looking reduced. The first had been when David had been abducted. He recalled taking some satisfaction at seeing Mycroft taken down a peg.

He did not enjoy it now.

It came as a shock to realise he had no desire to have Mycroft die on him, despite how much Sherlock enjoyed when his brother wasn't meddling in his life. Nor could he imagine what it would be like if his only immediate biological relative was his father. It would be like having no family left at all.

John picked up the chart and scanned it with quick professional efficiency.

"Looks pretty good," the doctor said and Mycroft actually managed a ghost of a smile. Sherlock thought it must be painful – his brother's face was bruised enough that any movement would smart.

"I'm glad for your reassurance on the matter, John," Mycroft said and sounded sincere. Sherlock wondered darkly what his brother had picked up from John's face, if he could tell they'd slept together on the couch. The first time that they'd genuinely slept with one another in over a week was no one else's business, but knowing Mycroft, it had already been laid bare.

"How do you feel?" John asked and Sherlock realized that he should have been the one to enquire.

"Well enough for someone who survived a bomb blast, I'm sure," he replied. "In your experience, John, how do I look?"

"Bloody amazing for someone who survived a bomb blast," John replied honestly. Mycroft managed to twitch an eyebrow up at that, his grey eyes amused for a moment. Sherlock wondered what painkillers he was being given – his eyes were fairly clear, although they had the same sort of glassiness as McKinney's. No surprise there, given that Mycroft had also suffered a concussion.

"There is a rather unpleasant ringing in my ears," Mycroft said. "They tell me it should fade."

"It probably will, but you should be prepared for the fact that it might not."

"Yes," Mycroft sighed. "They told me that as well."

Sherlock took a deep, silent breath and exhaled it slowly. He had spoken to McKinney. He could interview his own brother.

"What do you remember from yesterday before the blast?" he asked, keeping his voice level and as inflectionless as possible. Mycroft's grey eyes slid to him, ringed with fatigue. John put the chart away and poured some water, taking over the nursing duties this time. Mycroft accepted a few small sips, then nodded.

"Getting a text message from you," he replied. "Telling me to get out."

Sherlock nodded; he'd sent about a dozen of those between frantic voicemails.

"What else?" he pressed. He saw John's eyes flash to him with a doctor's warning but they were not going to get anywhere by coddling the intended victims or by waiting. At the last count Anthea had texted him early that morning, there were twenty people dead and seventeen reported missing. Both numbers would have jumped in the intervening three hours.

Mycroft sighed weakly. Doubtless he'd already been through this with the military and civilian police officers – and probably with Angela as well.

"There was something above the doors – one of his symbols. The ring of roses. That's how I knew."

Sherlock opened his mouth to say something, then shut it abruptly. He pulled out his phone and called up the text message he'd received from the killer the day before and held the phone out for Mycroft to see. Anthea had run the number for him already and had come back with the same result as last time: a prepaid mobile, although a different one this time.

Mycroft read the unfamiliar version of the rhyme slowly, then gave his head a slight shake.

"I'm not familiar with that one," he said.

"Nor am I," Sherlock replied. "But the message is clear nonetheless. We all fall down, Mycroft? He knows who you are. This is someone on the inside."

Mycroft managed a nod.

"I've considered that," he replied.

"What else do you remember? What about William McKinney?"

"He was standing by the doors, on his phone, I think."

"What else? Anything, anything at all? Unfamiliar people, anything out of place, an odd smell or sound?"

Mycroft closed his eyes with a faint sigh and Sherlock smoothed over the mild shock at seeing his brother look so weary. It took him back to the morning their mother had died when the grief and lack of sleep shown around the edges of Mycroft's expression. Sherlock put that aside with some difficulty. He waited a moment, wondering if Mycroft was going to fall asleep.

"No," his brother said then, opening his eyes. "No, Sherlock, nothing else."

John gave him some more water and Mycroft sipped it carefully.

"Give it time," John advised. "These things tend to come back."

"And in the meantime a professional killer is loose and our identities have been compromised," Mycroft said. His voice was weaker now and Sherlock could tell he was struggling. This time, however, he was not going to bow to John's wishes and wrap things up early. This was his brother. For all the grief Mycroft had given him in the past, he could take some of his own now, particularly since it might help catch the man who had tried to murder him.

"McKinney said he was recruited for the committee through official channels. Was it at your suggestion?"

Mycroft looked surprised behind the fatigue and the bruises.

"You've seen him?"

"We were just there. He's being transferred here later today."

"How is he?" Mycroft asked.

"Better than you," Sherlock replied. "Although he remembers no more than you do."

"Better than me," Mycroft mused. "Yet I was transferred first."

"Yes," Sherlock said simply. Mycroft managed to arch an eyebrow again, a knowing look in his glassy eyes but Sherlock kept his expression blank. He had far more pull with medical decisions concerning his brother than he did with a stranger, and he knew Anthea had exerted her influence as well.

"No, Sherlock, I didn't recruit him. This is quite a bit higher than me, as much as I know you won't believe that. My name was submitted to the Speaker of the House as were the others on the committee. It was his decision as to the final participants."

"Did you know the committee was being formed in advance?"

"I did, but the others didn't," Mycroft replied. Sherlock didn't need to ask why – that was Mycroft's job.

"Are you certain about that?"

"I was," Mycroft murmured.

"I'll need to talk to the Speaker of the House, Mycroft. I have to know who else was being considered and how many people were involved in the planning for this committee. It's no longer enough to simply have the information on the committee members themselves."

Mycroft looked amused.

"I do appreciate your faith in my ability to arrange this from a hospital bed, Sherlock," he said with a hint of wry humour in his voice.

Sherlock shrugged one shoulder.

"Given that you and McKinney were intended targets and he's already murdered two other committee members, this shouldn't be difficult. You're a resourceful man, Mycroft. You overrode the entire command structure of the Lothian and Borders Police to get us evidence, weapons, and Inspector Anderson in less than twenty-four hours."

Mycroft frowned, his lips twitching downward, then he hissed gently and tried to smooth his expression to avoid the pain from his cuts and bruises. John gave him more water and gave Sherlock a meaningful look, which the detective ignored.

"What do you mean?" he asked.

"Surely your painkillers are not that potent," Sherlock commented. "You do remember asking me to take the Murray case in Edinburgh."

"Of course," Mycroft said with only the barest hint of annoyance. "But what do you mean I obtained permissions for weapons for you?"

Sherlock hesitated suddenly, meeting John's eyes again. The doctor's dark gaze was puzzled and Sherlock felt a flash of suspicion course through him.

"When CI Kipling received the paperwork from you, it contained instructions that I should have access to the evidence, that Inspector Anderson should work with us, and that we be given handguns. We had to do quite a lot of paperwork for those. I remember it rather well."

"Sherlock, I arranged for Anderson to work with you and for the evidence, but not weapons."

"What? Mycroft, are you absolutely sure?"

"I took care of that personally, Sherlock. I would have obtained weapons permission for you if you'd asked, but I was content to leave it until you did so. I was somewhat surprised you didn't demand them but I was quite happy to let it go."

Sherlock stared at Mycroft then raised his gaze to John, who was meeting his eyes with a stunned expression.

"Someone got us weapons," he said. Mycroft was watching him carefully, some of the fatigue forgotten now. Sherlock narrowed his eyes and ran through the memories, analyzing them carefully. He could picture Kipling, Anderson, and John, their facial expressions, their stances – nothing out of the ordinary there. Irritation from Kipling, resigned confusion from Anderson, surprise from John. He tried to recall precisely what had been said, then snapped his gaze up to John who was watching him with confusion and concern.

"Kipling said the guns weren't standard for the L&B and you said they were SIGs but not the type used by the British military."

John nodded.

"Yeah, we use 226s and 229s. Those were 225s."

"But you also said they were used by some allied forces. Which ones?"

John frowned and shook his head.

"I don't know," he replied.

"Think, John, think! It's important!"

"I don't know!" John snapped again. "I've seen them before not often! I'm sorry, Sherlock, but I'm not an arms expert, especially not for other armies."

"Mycroft?" Sherlock asked, looking down at his brother.

"Not especially my area of expertise," his brother replied.

Sherlock growled and withdrew his phone from his jacket pocket and searched for the model number and its use by military forces. He felt John and Mycroft's gazes on him. The doctor's was far more concerned, Mycroft's was far less sharp than it should have been. Whoever had done this might not have succeeded in killing Mycroft but had levelled the playing field somewhat by putting his keen intellect out of commission.

But he still had to contend with Sherlock.

"Oh," the detective hissed and grinned a brief, brittle grin.

"What?" John snapped, but Sherlock shook his head. He couldn't be sure, not yet. He opened the text that contained the unfamiliar version of the nursery rhyme and copied it into the search engine. It was less than a minute's work to find where it came from.

"Oh, well done," Sherlock said, grinning again, looking up. "You may accuse me of not being subtle, Mycroft, but he is. And he's _clever_, isn't he?"

"What? Why is he clever?" John snapped.

"He's been telling us where he's from," Sherlock explained, feeling a sudden rush of adrenaline. He laughed, ignoring John's glare, ignoring Mycroft's cutting look.

"What? Why would he do that? And where is he from?"

"He's doing it because he can, because he knows it's not enough information. Oh, very clever, indeed. The nursery rhyme, John. It's only the slightest variation on the version typically used in Canada – enough of a deviation to be what he thought he was hearing as a child when he learned it. And the guns – SIG 225s, oh yes. Used by the Canadian Military Police. Mycroft, this explains everything – the boot prints on the floor in Kenton's house, the confidence and skill with which he murders his victims, his ability to move undetected – he's ex-Canadian Special Forces."

"I thought you said it was the Military Police," John protested.

"Yes, but they also use SIG 226s. Had he arranged for us to have that type of handgun, it wouldn't point us in the right direction. It's a hint, a signal. Oh, brilliant, absolutely brilliant! This whole time, he's been telling us where he's from."

"And I thought you said he doesn't want to get caught!"

"He doesn't. He's taunting us. He's clever but– oh, he's not me." Sherlock grinned brightly, feeling a flood of triumph. This, he loved this – the small mistakes that people made in the name of vanity or boredom, thinking they were safe, that they were untouchable. Thinking they were devious and more intelligent than everyone else.

But this one was more cunning than most. Sherlock met John's eyes and saw worry reflected in them now, but it didn't matter. They could find this man because even a professional had his pride and wanted his work to be noticed. He thought he was clever, and he was. He thought he was more clever than Sherlock Holmes, and he was wrong.

"Mycroft, try and remember as much as you can regarding the explosion and have Anthea arrange for us to meet with the Speaker if you can't do it from here. Come on, John, we have work to do."

He pocketed his phone and turned to stroll out, grinning to himself, nearly humming with energy and excitement.

_Got you_, he thought brightly.


	12. Chapter 12

It had been eight days since the explosion and, if John hadn't known better, he'd have thought a second one had occurred in their flat. He was used to dealing with Sherlock's messes, particularly when the consulting detective was on a case. There had been times when he'd had to dig his chair out of if he wanted to use it and Sherlock would make pointed comments under his breath. Normally this just meant he needed John's help.

This time it was different. This time, John wasn't allowed to use his chair.

When he wanted to read or just relax, he took himself upstairs to the guest room, which was at least free of clutter pertaining to the case. It saved him from listening to Sherlock's relentless muttering and pacing as well. He offered to help as much as he could but he wasn't much use right now – as far as Sherlock was concerned, anyway. There had been a two day stretch where Sherlock hadn't spoken a word except a single grunt in response to John's enquiry about his health. And that hardly counted as a word. Work was interspersed with the typical violin playing – thankfully not while John was sleeping but he wondered if that would last – and talking to the skull.

Not that he didn't want Sherlock to find the killer, of course. He had from the beginning. John was acutely aware that he'd asked– no, he'd _demanded_ that Sherlock take the Murray case in Edinburgh. He'd just never expected it to go this far and consume so much time.

Or consume so much of Sherlock.

He understood, he really did. Mycroft had been amazingly fortunate to have survived with such relatively minor injuries. But he was still in the hospital and under guard. John suspected he'd be released soon, although he wasn't sure how easy that would be. Because his right shoulder and arm had to be immobilized, he couldn't use crutches for his broken leg. John wondered how long Angela was planning on staying in London and if she was going to take care of Mycroft. Not that he couldn't hire a private nurse, John supposed.

The fact remained that Mycroft had been targeted by their killer and could very well have died. Sherlock had just lost one family member. He couldn't lose a second. And he wouldn't be defeated, not this time. It had been too much of a blow in Edinburgh.

But he was making no progress. Figuring out that the killer had served in the Canadian army was one thing – that narrowed it to thirty-five million people. John had checked on the military figures – almost seventy thousand active personnel, to say nothing of former soldiers.

_Needle in a haystack_, he thought, remembering Sherlock had said that in Edinburgh. What had seemed like a starting point a week ago now seemed tauntingly inadequate. John remembered how energized Sherlock had been when he'd deduced the killer's nationality. Now, he was just frustrated and exhausted.

They had no more information on the assassin and he hadn't so much as tripped anyone in the street in the past week. He had them where he wanted them and they were waiting. Waiting on his whims, Sherlock had said in April.

They were doing it again.

He could tell it was eating at Sherlock, this inability to uncover anything else combined with the killer's sudden silence. The detective spent every waking moment scouring the stacks of files and searching the Internet. The information Mycroft and Anthea had given him had been added to by the Speaker of the House, who had provided them with the names of all those who had been considered for the committee and everyone who had knowledge of it. Sherlock had thrown himself headlong into running down any possible leads he'd gleaned from that information and had come up against dead ends each time. John had the sense from what Sherlock had told him and the reading he'd done himself that this wasn't because someone was hiding something, but that the people involved in the committee weren't behind this.

Which meant someone else knew and they had no idea who it was.

That narrowed it down to the entirety of the British government.

_Brilliant, piece of cake, really_, John thought.

He managed to make Sherlock eat at least once a day but the energy that vibrated through the detective when he was sitting down for a meal probably cancelled out any calories he was consuming. He'd already lost weight – John had noticed but hadn't commented – and now he'd lost more. John put it at about six pounds. And still he didn't say anything. Whatever he said about it would be construed as criticism. Or just unnecessary data.

He slept alone again now, but not by choice this time. Sherlock was barely sleeping, only snatches here and there. John would occasionally find him passed out on the sofa and would tuck a blanket around him, unwilling to settle down with him again lest it wake him up. He didn't want to push his luck. The bed felt large and empty.

He felt lonely.

But what was he going to say? Please stop trying to find the man who tried to murder your brother?

So he slept alone, ignoring the noise coming from the rest of the flat with practiced ease. He still had to work, after all. The other doctors were sympathetic but he had patients and his colleagues couldn't take his workload indefinitely. They covered for him enough as it was.

He just wanted some peace and quiet. The normality that Sherlock had been so desperate to reclaim two weeks ago was eluding John now. He tried to remember when the last time that things had been really good. There were moments in late July that came to mind, and he'd thought they were good at the time, but when he looked back now, they were coloured with the knowledge that Sherlock had secretly been smoking.

That whole time. And John hadn't had any idea.

He'd scoured his memories, looking for some hint or sign, trying to figure out if he'd suspected anything, even deep down, even in passing. But there was nothing. He hadn't known because Sherlock had ensured that he hadn't known.

It had been Sam and Sandra's wedding, he realized. Four months since the last really good times. After that, there had always been something. The Murray case, Sibyl's death. John tried to remember that it hadn't been all bad, but it was hard from where he was standing. He was low on sleep himself and already in a bad mood from the problems he was having with Sherlock. Adding two murders and two attempted murders hadn't helped.

Something started to smell. He looked down and realized he was standing in front of the stove, stirring the pot of soup he'd been making for himself. His thoughts had run away on him and he'd just stood there, absently shifting the wooden spoon back and forth, until all of the broth had boiled away and the pot was gently smoking. With a muttered curse, John turned off the gas and pulled the pot away from the element, tossing the spoon in the sink. Any other time, this would have earned a question from Sherlock as to his well being, but John could see him at the desk, intent on some stack of files.

With a sigh, he put the pot in the sink as well and fetched another one. He pulled down a new tin of soup then stared at it.

_Oh, to hell with this,_ he thought.

"I'm going out to get Chinese," he said, striding through the living room. "I'll be back in twenty minutes. What do you want?"

There was no reply and John spun.

"Sherlock!"

The detective raised his head, glancing over his shoulder with a mild scowl.

"Nothing, John, I'm working," he snapped.

"Yeah, well you need to eat, too. I'll just get the usual."

Sherlock gazed at him for a long moment, his expression cool, then gave a curt nod.

"Fine," he agreed and turned back to his work. His voice had been neutral – no hint of irritation that he was being forced to eat. Just a brief dismissal. John stared at the back of Sherlock's head for a moment, then sucked in a deep breath. He let himself out of the flat, shutting the door behind him a little louder than necessary.

* * *

><p>"This makes no sense!"<p>

John sighed and shut the door behind him. Sherlock was standing in front of the kitchen doors now and had rounded on him when John had come back in. His hair was dishevelled, curling in all directions, clear evidence that he'd been running his fingers through it in frustration. He looked paler than he should have, expression drawn around the edges.

"I know," John replied.

"Why? Why would he do this? He killed three people – that we know of – cleanly, without witnesses. He made sure they were dead. This doesn't fit his pattern. Two at once? And why Mycroft and McKinney at the same time? Why not any of the others? Is he working his way through the men first? But that makes no sense either! We _know_ he had no qualms about killing a young girl."

John sighed again and went into the kitchen. He dished up the food, making sure to heap it onto Sherlock's plate, then held it out to the detective.

"Here," he said, keeping his voice calm despite the fact that he felt inclined to snap. He knew that was just frustration and low blood sugar, but Sherlock rehashing the same facts over and over wasn't helping. He'd been hearing the same analysis for a week now. "Please eat. For me."

It worked and John felt a twinge of guilt for knowing that it would work and using it. He knew Sherlock was carefully evaluating his actions with John now and John knew he was using that against him. But it was the only thing that would make him eat. Given how gaunt the detective looked, it was worth it. When this was over, it was going to be two weeks of fish and chips and milkshakes.

Sherlock took the food and ate it standing up, barely bothering to chew before he swallowed.

"Slow down," John said. "I may be a doctor but I don't want to have to do the Heimlich on you. It could break your ribs and land you in hospital."

Sherlock consented to eat a little more slowly but still polished off his large plate before John had got halfway through his food. The fact that he'd eaten it all told John how hungry he really was, how much he was ignoring his body's demands while trying to solve this case. With a sigh, the doctor took his husband's empty plate and put it in the sink. He leaned against the counter, finishing his own supper at a more sedate pace.

"Maybe whoever's giving him orders wanted him to do two at once," John said.

"But why?" Sherlock hissed. "Why change now? What do Mycroft and McKinney have in common?"

John just shook his head, poking a piece of broccoli with his fork. Sherlock had been asking that for a week as well and had chased down every possible lead, no matter how insignificant it had seemed. He'd come up with the same result each time. Nothing. Yes, Mycroft and McKinney knew many of the same people but that was not surprising. They were both well connected in the government. But none of those links panned out into anything substantial. But someone had decided to try to eliminate both of them at once. He had failed, but in the end, their killer had murdered twenty-seven people outright and put another thirteen in hospital.

_Isn't that enough?_ he asked himself.

Sherlock stalked away again, pulling his phone out of his pocket as John finished eating. The doctor rinsed their dishes and put the leftovers in the fridge, thinking about ringing some old army mates and going for a pint. It might be nice to get out of the disaster zone he called his home.

When he stepped back into the living room he saw Sherlock standing utterly still, staring at his phone.

"What?" John asked immediately. "Did he text again?"

"No," Sherlock said in a distant voice. He paused, his eyes not leaving the phone's tiny screen. John waited, wondering if more was forthcoming. He was just about to ask when Sherlock said:

"Do you remember what Mycroft said McKinney was doing immediately before the blast?"

John frowned, tugging his lower lip between his teeth in concentration.

"Standing by the doors, wasn't he?"

"Standing by the doors on his phone."

John's frown deepened.

"Yeah, and?" he asked. "Mycroft was on his phone, too; he told you that the first time you talked to him. Because you and Anthea had been trying to call him."

"Yes," Sherlock replied, nodding slowly. He kept his eyes on his phone a moment longer then snapped his gaze up to John. "Why didn't William McKinney ever mention this?"

"Post-traumatic amnesia," John sighed. "Look, Sherlock, he was in a bomb blast. It's been a week. It's not surprising he wouldn't remember a detail like that. In fact, he and Mycroft remember a lot more than most people would have. The information you've got from them – it's really good for what happened to them."

"But not good enough," Sherlock replied. "Think, John. Mycroft remembered being on the phone."

"Yes, because it's what saved his life!"

"But who was McKinney on the phone with?"

"His wife?" John suggested.

"Yes, yes, I assumed so, too. And why not? They'd just been in a meeting in which their mobiles were all turned off and he had good reason to fear for his family. But in none of the statements she made did she indicate that she had spoken to him right before the blast."

"Maybe it slipped her mind."

"No! No, John, that kind of thing wouldn't be forgotten! Not if it was her husband! Would you forget a thing like that?"

John stared and Sherlock stopped short, his expression shifting from focused on the question to realising what he'd just said. John swallowed hard but made himself stay calm. Sherlock had been angry at him in Edinburgh for asking to him to think of how he'd feel if John had simply vanished. But this had been unintentional. Sherlock wasn't trying to guilt him, just make him think about the circumstances that surrounded the explosion.

"No, I don't think I would," John answered levelly.

Sherlock exhaled slowly then nodded sharply.

"Precisely. So to whom was he speaking?"

"An aide, another family member? Mistress?"

"It could be," Sherlock agreed.

"But you don't think so."

"He was standing right next to the doors, which made it easy for him to get out of the building immediately and run up the street. But still inside, where Mycroft would see him. John, our killer is not stupid; he managed to break into two alarmed homes and murder two grown men in the space of twenty-four hours. He could have simply shot Mycroft."

He paused and paced away a few steps, holding his phone between his palms and pressing his thumbs against his lips. Then he stood still for a long moment before turning back, his grey eyes brighter than John had seen in a week.

"But he didn't. He rigged an explosion that didn't detonate until _after_ he'd sent me the words to his version of the rhyme. He left me figure it out first and gave me enough time to contact Mycroft. Because of that, Mycroft survived. So did McKinney. He had all of them right there, cut off from communication, but he focused on Mycroft and McKinney. And neither of them died."

"So you think McKinney set this up? He got himself injured in a bomb blast to deflect suspicion from himself?"

"I don't know," Sherlock said, unlocking his phone. "But Anthea can check his phone records for me. I strongly suspect in the moments before the explosion, we will find he was speaking to someone on a prepaid mobile."


	13. Chapter 13

John hoped Sherlock would be wrong.

He knew that was fairly useless – and he knew that the detective was banking on being right. But he couldn't bring himself to want Sherlock's deductions to work out, not this time. It was too grim.

Twenty-seven people were dead.

_No, thirty_, he corrected himself, watching the dark city slide by them outside the cab's windows. Benjamin Laurence, Arthur Kenton, and Kelsi Murray brought the count up to thirty. That they knew of.

He glanced at Sherlock who was looking impassively out his own window. Anyone else would have seen precisely what the consulting detective wanted them to see: a calm, unconcerned man, vaguely bored, waiting for the cab to drop them off. He'd given the cabbie their destination in a casual tone of voice. Nothing in the set of his muscles or the way he spoke indicated any kind of tension, but John knew him better than that. He could see it in the spark of those pale grey eyes, the almost imperceptible tightening of his mouth. No one else would have spotted it, except perhaps Mycroft. But John spent a lot of time looking at Sherlock's mouth – not to mention doing other things to it – and he hated seeing it even slightly tense.

Sherlock's gaze didn't so much as flicker but John knew he was being observed even more than he was observing. Whatever Sherlock was seeing, though, he kept it to himself. With a tired sigh, John turned his head to look back out his window.

Anthea had called them fifteen minutes ago, confirming Sherlock's suspicion. The last number dialled out from William McKinney's phone was not in his list of contacts and came up as a prepaid mobile. She'd given Sherlock the number to ascertain that it was neither of the numbers which had been used to contact him. John wasn't surprised – this man wasn't about to let himself be found so easily.

It made him feel sick. He'd seen people in Afghanistan used as human shields or forced into being suicide bombers or gunned down simply because they were in the way. There were times when the war felt distant and other times when it felt like it was right here, all around him, being re-enacted with a different cast. The idea that someone would set himself up in a bombing to deflect suspicion was terrifying but all too believable to John.

The cab dropped them off at the main entrance to Princess Grace and Sherlock dispensed with the fact that it was well past visiting hours by simply ignoring the staff and acting as if he had every right to be there. McKinney had been transferred to the same ward as Mycroft and John suddenly realized what that meant. He wondered how long Sherlock had been thinking about it. But Mycroft was under guard, he reminded himself.

Of course, he'd been in the middle of a public place when someone had tried to blow him up.

Sherlock stood in stony silence while the guards scrutinized their identification. They'd been through this several times with Mycroft already – sometimes with the same guards. John appreciated that they were doing their job, but it was difficult to confuse a pale, dark-haired, six-foot-two man with anyone else. They were checked for weapons after their IDs had been inspected and then admitted to the room. The guards thankfully didn't seem to care that it was already nearly eleven at night and McKinney was sleeping.

John watched Sherlock carefully, wondering what he'd do. He was half afraid the detective would startle the older man awake – if he was really the one behind this, John had no pity for him, but what if it were a coincidence and he'd just happened to be talking to someone he knew who owned a prepaid mobile? It wasn't like their killer had a monopoly on those. Maybe he _did_ have a mistress and he'd bought her one so no one could track her down.

Plus, despite it all, he had just been injured in a bomb blast. The doctor in John didn't want to subject McKinney to any more shock.

Sherlock stood near the foot of the bed and John stayed a few steps back. In the semi-darkness of the private hospital room, the detective's pale eyes were gleaming. His expression was unreadable in the dim lighting but John could see how rigidly he was holding himself, how his muscles were all defined by sharp angles and stark lines. The shadows blurred his features, making him look younger than he normally did.

John had seen that kind of look and stance before, too many times. He drew a breath to warn Sherlock to stay calm, but the detective spoke before he could.

"Mister McKinney."

Sherlock's voice was deceptively soft but John heard the core of steel underneath it. He held up a hand, shooting Sherlock a warning look, but the detective ignored him.

"Mister McKinney," Sherlock repeated.

McKinney stirred, blinking himself awake. He turned his head slightly, squinting in the low light, trying to focus on Sherlock's shadowed figure at the end of his bed.

"Mister Holmes?" he asked groggily. John was suddenly struck by how badly they could be wrong about this and took a step toward the gurney.

"Who is he, Mister McKinney?"

McKinney blinked again, looking genuinely puzzled.

"Sherlock–" John started but Sherlock didn't acknowledge him, keeping his gaze on the injured man. McKinney shifted on his bed, using his right arm to push himself up somewhat.

"Who is whom?" he asked.

"The man you hired to kill Kelsi Murray, Laurence, and Kenton. The man you hired to try and kill my brother, Mister McKinney. Who is he?"

McKinney stared at him.

"I don't know," he said, casting a quick, confused glance at John. "Mister Holmes, I'm not involved in this."

Sherlock took a step toward the head of the bed, his tall frame looming in the darkness. John kept a sharp eye on him.

"You were on the phone right before the blast," Sherlock said in a low voice that was almost a murmur.

McKinney looked puzzled.

"I don't remember–"

"Yes you do, of course you do. Standing conveniently next to the doors, on the phone. Where Mycroft would see you and be able to warn you. Where you'd be able to run."

"Young man–"

"Speaking to someone with a prepaid mobile. Admittedly a different number than the two he's used to contact me so far." Sherlock took another step forward and John felt his muscles tensing in response, an instinctive reaction preparing him to intervene.

"I wondered why that didn't fit the pattern. Oh, I thought Mycroft may be behind all of this, because it wouldn't be beyond him, but not after the explosion. My brother values his comfort, you see. He would find a way to deflect suspicion that didn't leave him injured and confined to the hospital. But you… You're not my brother."

His voice remained quiet, almost soft, and John had the distinct sense it was the calm before the storm.

"Sherlock," he hissed softly.

"Who is he?" Sherlock repeated.

"I don't know," McKinney managed, his voice hoarse with fatigue and confusion. "I wasn't–"

"He killed Kelsi Murray, Laurence, and Kenton up close, quickly, without witnesses. Neat jobs – aside from all the blood, yes – but not this. He had all of you in the same place. He could have taken you all out at once, but he waited. Waited for the others to leave, waited until I'd figured it out. Then he tried to kill my brother. He murdered twenty-seven people in an attempt to kill Mycroft. A bullet would have been far more reliable, Mister McKinney. But this made you look like an intended target."

He paused, leaning down slightly.

"Who. Is. He."

"I don't know!" McKinney hissed.

Moving too quickly for John to react, Sherlock reached out with both hands, pressing his left palm firmly over McKinney's mouth and splaying his right hand against the man's ribs, pushing down hard. McKinney's sudden cry was muffled by Sherlock's hand.

"Jesus Christ, Sherlock!" John protested, stepping toward the bed fast, wrapping his hands around the detective's wrists. Sherlock's eyes snapped up to him and there was so much rage in them that John let go without thinking, taking half a step back. Sherlock's lips twitched, fighting down a snarl. The doctor stood immobile for a moment, too shocked to react. He'd never seen that much anger in Sherlock's expression before.

"Tell me," Sherlock hissed, leaning down so he was almost nose-to-nose with McKinney. The other man grunted, shaking his head desperately. "Tell me!"

McKinney managed something muffled and Sherlock pressed down harder. John winced at the whimper and stepped forward again, grabbing Sherlock's wrists with no intentions of releasing him this time. But Sherlock tensed his body, bearing his weight down onto his palms, making it impossible for John to get good leverage.

"Sherlock, stop!" John snapped.

"Who is he, Mister McKinney? I can press so much harder."

McKinney shook his head again but there was a different tone to it this time, a flash of acknowledgement in his eyes.

"If you call for the guards, I'll make sure your ribs are broken again," the detective threatened. McKinney nodded, breathing hard. Sherlock eased his left hand away but pushed down hard with his right. John wrapped his fingers around Sherlock's right hand and managed to pry it loose.

"I don't know his name," McKinney gasped. At this, Sherlock straightened slightly and dropped his left hand to take the place of his right, but John had already relaxed his grip when he heard the admission. McKinney hissed again, trying to arch away. "I don't, I don't! I've never met him – only spoken to him on the phone or via email."

"What do you know about him? Where is he?"

"Don't know," McKinney gasped. "There was as little contact as possible – gnh! I'm telling you the truth! I gave him the orders, he carried them out!"

"We need to find him!" Sherlock snapped.

"You can't," McKinney groaned. "You can't."

Sherlock pressed harder and John cursed. This was getting to be too much like torture – he knew the police occasionally used limited force and physical discomfort but this was excessive.

"Let him go!" he ordered, sharpening his voice to his best captain's tone and Sherlock's eyes flickered up for a moment. He eased on his grip but didn't remove his hand.

"All the way," John growled in a tone of voice he scarcely recognized as his own.

Sherlock shot him a dark look but pulled his hand away. McKinney gasped again, breathing hard, a dark smile ghosting over his lips.

"You can't find him," McKinney repeated. "Not unless he wants you to. Everything was done at a distance. Safer that way."

"Safer," Sherlock echoed, his voice hollow. He leaned over again. "Why?" he hissed.

"This country, Mister Holmes," McKinney replied and John felt cold at how reasonable his voice sounded below the pain. "Your brother would understand."

John redoubled his grip on Sherlock's hands the instant before they twitched and managed to hold his husband back.

"You said that disagreement is the foundation of democracy," Sherlock replied in a dangerous voice.

"Yes," McKinney replied, managing a nod. "And occasionally, democracy is the wrong sort of government. Occasionally, things simply need to _work_."

Sherlock straightened abruptly, startling John. Without a word, he spun and stalked from the room. John hurried to keep up, feeling stunned and numb. Mycroft had made the same argument to him years ago. He'd vaguely assumed that that Mycroft wasn't alone, that there were other people in the government with the same sort of power and ideas. For some reason, he'd always felt like he would never encounter them, that maybe knowing Mycroft would keep them at bay. He should have suspected the opposite – that knowing Mycroft made it more likely that he would meet them.

"Arrest him," Sherlock said, pointing back toward the room. The two military police officers turned to look at John, who was standing in the doorway.

"Not me!" John snapped.

"William McKinney," Sherlock clarified, his voice like ice. He paused, then suddenly gave them one his bright, cold smiles that sent a shudder down John's spine. "You've been guarding the man behind all of this for a week."

"Sir?" one of the officers said.

"Thirty people have died because of him," Sherlock said flatly. "I appreciate that he may not fall under your jurisdiction, in which case I suggest you call the Met and have them arrest him. It may be in your best interest to at least handcuff him to the bed, for appearances' sake."

"He just confessed," John said, not adding that he'd done so under duress. It wouldn't matter – confessing to Sherlock wasn't a legal admission anyway. He'd have to talk to the police, but John was certain that he would. There was no getting away from it anymore.

Although once Mycroft found out, McKinney would probably just quietly disappear.

He shuddered again, unable to stop himself.

The Redcaps stepped into the room, closing the door firmly behind them, leaving John and Sherlock alone in the corridor. John was suddenly grateful that Mycroft was in another section of this ward, his room not visible from where they were. There was a nurse at the nurses' station just down the hall – John could just make her out sitting behind the high counter, but she wasn't paying them any attention.

"We need to tell Mycroft," John managed. He inhaled slowly, counted to ten, then exhaled.

"Yes," Sherlock replied in a clipped voice. John ran his hands into his hair, trying to displace the tension and the adrenaline. Sherlock stepped away and John felt suddenly drained.

"Sherlock–" he said and his husband stopped and turned back, his expression unreadable, his eyes bright. John cast around for something to say, realising suddenly that he didn't know what to do. "Maybe we should leave it until tomorrow?"

Sherlock stared at him.

"We've just apprehended the man who intended to have Mycroft killed and you want to leave it until morning? Do you think he would appreciate that?"

John shook his head.

"No," he admitted. "No, I can't imagine he would. But– that–" he gestured uselessly back to McKinney's room.

That had been Sherlock working.

"John, if you're tired, you can go home and sleep," Sherlock said and there was a hint of something in there – warmth. Concern. It was familiar and unexpected and sent a jolt through John. He managed to shake his head.

"No, I–" _don't want to leave you._ "I should go with you."

"Very well, then come on."

John stepped forward and joined his husband who turned to fall into step with him again, then paused, frowning. He fished his phone out of his jacket pocket and John froze with a sinking feeling in his stomach.

Moving carefully, as if the text might vanish otherwise, Sherlock opened the message. He read it then extended his phone to John, who peered at the tiny screen.

_So sorry for the delay, family holidays, you know how it is._

John stared.

"Oh," Sherlock said suddenly and John looked up to see the blank expression of realisation on the detective's face a moment before it flashed through a mixture of anger and admiration. "Oh, stupid, stupid. Obvious. McKinney _told_ us."

"Told us what?" John demanded.

"He gave the orders, our killer carried them out! Of course, of course! It was _him_. All of this, the past ten years, it's been him!"

"What do you mean?" John pressed.

"Anderson told us in April! The nursery rhymes and fairy tales, John!"

"What?" John asked, aghast. "You think _she_ had something to do with this? Sherlock, she spent a decade of her life trying to track this man down!"

"I know, I know!" Sherlock hissed. "She's not involved in this! But she told us in the hotel that she recognized the Crooked Man rhyme because she had children and the stories had stayed with her!"

John nodded.

"Yes, so?"

"Family holidays, John. _Family_ holidays. A entire set of clues built around children's stories. John, think! William and Mary McKinney – how many children do they have? Think about their files!"

John frowned then felt the muscles in his face relax with shock.

"None," he said flatly.

Sherlock nodded once, holding up the phone almost like a talisman.

"Family holidays! He _does_ have children. I was wrong– we were all wrong. We thought if we found the man behind him, we'd have all the information we need, all the details. But McKinney hired him, John! Gave him the orders. He told our killer _what_ to do but not_ how_ to do it, nor how to communicate with us! And why not? Another step removed. Safer," he spat, glaring at his phone.

"So that means–" John started, then cut himself off, shaking his head.

"Yes," Sherlock agreed. "We have the man behind this, but he won't know who's next or when or how. We don't have the means of catching the killer. We don't have the pieces to his puzzles. He's still out there, John, and we have no way of finding out who he is."


	14. Chapter 14

"He has kids," John said in a hollow tone.

He knew it really wasn't the most important piece of information here, but it was the one his brain had latched onto.

"Yes, it explains the–"

"So he goes home every night, reads them stories, then goes out and kills people," John interrupted, staring at the wall past Sherlock. He half felt, half saw the detective hesitate and switched his gaze back to his husband, whose expression was equal measures dark and hesitant.

"What?" John snapped.

"He was a soldier," Sherlock said simply.

John stared at him then shook his head.

"We don't–" he started, then cut himself off, swallowing hard. "It's not– I don't have kids," he settled for saying, knowing that it was irrelevant.

"Tricia does," Sherlock replied.

"She's a doctor, she never–"

But yes, she had, he realized.

"It's not the same!" he said hotly, feeling a surge of anger accompanied by fear and discomfort that only made him angrier. Because Sherlock had a point. But it _wasn't_ the same, he told himself. He set his jaw and felt his hands tighten into fists.

"You misunderstand me," Sherlock said, his grey eyes flickering over John's face.

"How?" John demanded.

"I mean, _he_ was a soldier. That was a job, this is a job. He was trained to kill people and that's what does. He simply does it for someone else now."

"We don't all do that!" John shot back.

"I didn't say that you did, John."

John stared at his husband, realizing that he was breathing hard. And then remembered two windowpanes shattered by a bullet and a dying cabbie. He remembered a gun pressed to Jim Moriarty's throat, and he would have done it, too, to save Sherlock, if Sherlock had only had the sense to run when told to. And he remembered Tricia in her kitchen, standing over the body of the woman who'd held her hostage, the assassin's own weapon in her hand.

"It's not the same!" he hissed again, but to himself this time. He saw the flicker of confusion and concern on Sherlock's features but before the detective could say anything, the sound of his phone startled both of them in the near silence of the hospital corridor.

John saw Lestrade's name pop up on the screen and cursed under his breath. Sherlock stiffened but answered the call, putting it on speaker.

"Inspector," he said in a cool voice.

"We've got another one of yours," Lestrade said without preamble.

"Where are you?" Sherlock demanded as John felt a chill run down his spine, grounding him to the floor.

"The Victoria Embankment, Sherlock," Lestrade said. His voice had the hard and clipped tone John recognized as true anger, barely contained. "Underneath the Westminster Bridge."

* * *

><p>It was one of the rare times that John's skills as a doctor were needed at the scene – but not for the victim. He had found himself crouched behind one of the police cars, bathed in the alternating blue-and-red lights, helping a couple officers sip some water. Sally Donovan was there, on her feet but leaning over, hands on her knees, head bowed. Whether she was keeping an eye on the officers who'd thrown up or was keeping herself from being sick, John couldn't tell. He met her eyes and she returned his gaze blankly, her expression tight. He passed her a bottle of water without comment and she took it with a nod.<p>

Despite everything he'd seen in Afghanistan, he was almost grateful to be behind the shelter of the car, away from the body splattered on the road.

Splattered was a good word. John had seen it – only for a few seconds, but they were long enough for a trained trauma surgeon. There was no way to survive a fall from that height, not onto asphalt. The impact had half crushed him, smearing blood and brain matter and skin across the road. Even the officers who were there were looking green and keeping back.

John pushed himself to his feet.

"All right, Sergeant?" he asked Donovan.

"All right, Doctor, thanks," she replied, nodding again. Steeling himself, he turned and left her with the other officers, circling around the car and walking steadily toward the body.

Everyone was keeping back – everyone except Sherlock.

He was crouched down next to the corpse, for once wearing a sterile suit. It had the effect of making him look even thinner than he'd become, and the glow from the street lamps and the emergency lights made his skin look paler. He was looking up at the bridge, a frown of concentration on his face. As John moved closer, Sherlock pushed himself to his feet and walked around the corpse then away from it, toward the bridge, never lowering his eyes.

Lestrade stepped up to John, blue eyes gleaming darkly.

"Want to tell me what's going on?" he asked in a low voice. John frowned and glanced at him.

"There's a–"

"I don't mean the killer, John; we have some idea about that, even if the military police have been handling it. I mean with him." He nodded at Sherlock and John followed his gaze. "I haven't seen him this skinny since – well I think since he met you."

At this, John felt a flash of guilt then anger. That wasn't really his fault. He drew a deep breath and reminded himself that Lestrade hadn't said it was.

"Someone did try to murder his brother," John pointed out.

Lestrade sighed but nodded. John felt a moment's relief at not having to go into their personal life – as much as he liked the DI, he really didn't want to hash out his marital problems with Lestrade. He had no desire for anyone on the Met to know about what was going on, either. It would only make it harder for Sherlock to work with them – and Sherlock _would_ know if they knew.

"Just–" the DI started, then glanced over his shoulder when a car door shut behind them. John looked round as well when Lestrade swore under his breath.

"Please tell me Sherlock did _not_ call him," Lestrade muttered then, moving away to intercept Sam as the Interpol agent approached the scene. John stared. Sherlock had been on the phone in the cab on the way over, texting someone, and John had assumed it was Anthea because Sherlock had said he was going to contact her. He probably had. He'd evidently contacted Sam as well.

John saw Sam stop, look at the body, look up at the bridge, and go pale. He held himself very still for a moment, then set his jaw, giving a sharp, contained nod.

"Why am I here?" he asked in a hard voice.

_Good bloody question_, John thought, glancing back as Sherlock approached them again.

"Maxen Brace, forty-nine, Shadow Secretary of State for Health. From Cardiff. He's Welsh– well, he was. A Welshman murdered in England technically qualifies as a crime that crosses international borders."

"And the killer is Canadian, Sherlock," Sam snapped. "This _already_ qualified. It qualified when Kelsi Murray was murdered – although admittedly we didn't know that – but it also qualified as soon as this man started killing in England after committing murder in Scotland. Interpol's already on this."

"There you are, then," Sherlock said dismissively. Sam stared at him but the detective had already lost interest and was looking at Lestrade. "What's up at the top?"

"What?" Lestrade demanded.

"Where he was pushed!" Sherlock snapped. "What's there? Any indications of the precise location?"

"Yeah," Lestrade huffed and pulled out his phone. "Graffiti." Sherlock held out a hand expectantly and the DI passed the phone over with a pointed look that was entirely ignored. Sherlock scrolled back and forth between some images and then grinned brightly. The suddenness of the smile startled John – it jarring with the body in the background behind Sherlock and the tension of the officers that surrounded him.

"Brilliant!" the detective murmured, the grin still tugging on his lips. John felt a flash of shock course through him, followed by sudden lightheaded feeling.

Sherlock was enjoying this.

"Yeah, tell me what it means, Sherlock," Lestrade ordered.

"Look at the way he landed," Sherlock said, pointing at the body, then striding back toward it. He turned to glare at them when they didn't move to follow. John cast a look at Lestrade, who sighed and joined Sherlock to stand over the mangled corpse. Sam stayed several steps behind and John didn't blame him.

It was the closest he'd seen the body yet and it was the shock that kept him rooted to the spot because every other instinct inside of him wanted to move away. It was worse than it looked from a distance – the impact had broken so many of the man's bones that he was limp, as if he were made of putty. He had landed face down, but his face was turned slightly to his left. He was unrecognizable, however, his features lost in a mess of blood, his skull crushed. His arms were oddly pinned under his body – John thought he would have instinctively held them out. As if that would somehow have helped. The angle of his back told John his spine was severed and the odd list of his legs below his hips indicated his pelvis was shattered. His clothing was torn here and there and he had compound fractures cutting through his skin.

And there was more than John could see that he knew because he was a doctor. That much damage to the skeleton meant the internal organs were obliterated. Not that it would have mattered if they hadn't been. There was no surviving that.

Tearing his eyes away, John looked up at the bridge through the near darkness.

_God, he must have been terrified_, he thought. Then he looked back at Sam, who was watching Sherlock stonily. The Interpol agent met his eyes, but only briefly.

"Look at the way he's lying," Sherlock said, crouching down, not at all concerned with the state of the dead man at his feet. "Face down, hands beneath him. If he'd been forced off the bridge backwards, he would likely have landed on his back, face up. He wasn't thrown off – that sort of action is awkward and difficult. We know our killer is between five-foot-ten and five-foot-eleven. Brace was six feet. Not impossible to imagine he could have been picked up and thrown over, but unlikely. It would take more effort than necessary."

"So what?" Lestrade asked. "He was pushed facing the railing?"

"No, because then he could have grabbed hold of the railing – or he'd have been able to, had his hands not been tied. That's why they're pinned underneath him." He tapped the body absently on its shoulder and glancing up at the bridge again.

"And if he'd been facing the railing when pushed, he would most likely have tumbled midair and landed on his back as well. This wasn't a struggle. He was forced over, not pushed over."

"How?" Lestrade demanded.

"Gun, most likely," Sherlock said, in a slightly bored tone, as if this detail was tedious. "Probably the same way he was forced from whatever function he was attending. Formal clothing, good suit, but a bit late for business meetings. And he'd have taken Brace from somewhere public."

"Why?" the DI sighed.

"To prove that he can," Sherlock said. He glanced up at Lestrade and grinned.

"He's showing off," the Inspector murmured.

"Yes, I imagine he is, but he might qualify it as taking pride in his work."

"He's _playing_ with you!" Lestrade snapped.

"No, he's been given orders and is carrying them out creatively and efficiently." He glanced up at the bridge again. "We all fall down," he murmured, that familiar smile playing on his lips. John wanted to close his eyes or take Sherlock by the shoulders and shake some sense into him – he was appreciating this. Not the death, John thought, but the detail. Without meaning to, he turned his head slightly, catching a glimpse of Donovan out of the corner of his eye.

_No,_ he told himself firmly, turning back.

"Kenton didn't fall anywhere," he pointed out, keeping his voice steady, locking his eyes with Sherlock's. After all John had seen in Afghanistan, it came as a shock to realise he'd never seen the body of someone who had fallen from a height before dying. He'd seen people who'd tumbled off buildings after being shot. They had dealt with jumpers in the army, too – suicides – but John had never personally witnessed one.

"No," Sherlock agreed. "But his death agreed with his story."

"What?" Lestrade demanded.

"What's the message?" John asked at the same time.

Sherlock extended Lestrade's phone, which he was still holding, and John took it. He glanced down at the picture and then dropped his head back, closing his eyes. On the pavement above, their killer had drawn two ovals in permanent marker – one complete one, one that was missing the top half, the break delineated by a jagged line. On the complete one, he'd even drawn little stick arms and legs.

_This is sick_, John thought, echoing Anderson's words from April.

"He was sitting," he said through gritted teeth.

"Precisely," Sherlock said, his voice far too bright.

"Do you plan on telling me what's going on?" Lestrade snapped.

"Humpty Dumpty," John replied, lowering his head again and returning the phone to the DI.

"He was sitting on the parapet before he was pushed off," Sherlock explained. He pushed himself to standing, stripping off his sterile gloves. "It explains the position in which he landed – he was sitting facing away from the bridge. And here we are, unable to put him back together again. However, we _can_ put together where he was and how he got here."

John pressed the heels of his hands against his forehead. _Mycroft's going to be furious_, he thought.

Lestrade sighed, shaking his head.

"We're already working on that," he said. "Maybe we'll get lucky – maybe someone saw him this time. If he took Brace from some sort of event, then someone had to notice he was missing."

"Hmm, doubtful," Sherlock replied. "Oh, yes someone will notice Brace has gone, but I can't imagine our killer will have let himself be spotted."

"Then what do you suggest we do?" Lestrade snapped. "We're sitting on our hands waiting for him to pick off people one by one!"

"I suggest you clean this up," Sherlock replied, his voice suddenly hard, his eyes narrowing and flashing, reflecting the blue from the police cars' lights. "And find out where he was and how he got here. I will deal with establishing the pattern."

"Pattern? What pattern?"

"He's killing members of a Parliamentary committee, Lestrade, and the less you know about that, the better. The men he's killed so far – there may be a reason he's choosing them in this particular order. You can stand here arguing with me or you can tidy this up and let me find him! I don't need to waste my time answering your questions – just do your job."

He stripped off his sterile suit and left it on the ground, stepping around the body.

"Sam, I'll need access to some Interpol files. I'll text you with the details once I've established them. Come on, John, we're not accomplishing anything here. We've seen all he wants us to see."

Sam didn't respond to Sherlock's comment and John met his eyes. He had the look of a man who was facing several sleepless nights and who was all too aware of it. He gave a curt nod and Sherlock breezed past, dragging John in his wake.

"He got past the guards on Brace," John snapped when they got closer to the police cars. "Sherlock, this is insane! Lestrade's right – we're just waiting for him to pick them off one by one!"

Sherlock rounded on him, expression cold and bright.

"Then we increase the guards and don't allow them to go anywhere public where there's any possibility that they can be caught on their own," he snapped. "Would you like to stand here and complain to me about his capabilities, John? I know what he's done!"

"And you think he's clever!"

"He _is_ clever!" Sherlock shot back. "And while you stand here moaning to me about his intelligence, he's walked away from this. The longer you make me wait out here, the more time he has to plan the next one. Stop dithering and come _with_ me, John! We're going home. I need to establish his pattern."

John stared at him then forced himself to nod, falling into step behind Sherlock. He was livid and he recognized it was because he was terrified. No one knew who their killer was, even the man who had hired him. He was running circles around them, getting in past security everywhere and leaving a trail of bodies in his wake.

And the only person who wasn't frightened by him was Sherlock.


	15. Chapter 15

John was sitting at the desk, cheek squashed against his left fist to keep himself braced and upright. He was listening to Sherlock pace their disaster zone of a flat, muttering to himself, sometimes directing comments at the skull or at John, sometimes plucking notes on his violin, filling the air with snatches of music. The monologue had changed since earlier that evening – or yesterday, John wasn't even sure anymore. They had more information now, but it still seemed useless. William McKinney didn't know who his hired killer was or how to contact him. They had no idea who would be next. A shudder ran through John as he realized he'd thought that.

_We can stop there being a 'next'_, he told himself.

He was resting his eyes, thinking of their bed. The chair in which he was sitting was getting uncomfortable, but his own armchair was buried and off-limits. The surface of the desk was hard against his arm even if it was somewhat padded with files. But their bed wasn't covered in files. The bedroom remained steadfastly a work-free zone. John had drawn the line in the very early days after finding Sherlock in bed next to him one morning with a bottle of hydrochloric acid and some Litmus strips.

He thought about hauling himself up and walking through the litany of rambling words that his husband was spouting into the bedroom and crawling into bed. Maybe he'd slap his hand over Sherlock's mouth on the way by and force the detective to come with him. They could… John didn't even know. He was too tired to do anything but realized with a mild jolt that he sort of wanted to. He wondered if Sherlock would be offended if he fell asleep halfway through. Or a quarter of the way through. Or right at the beginning.

_Best not_, he told himself with an inward sigh. They had enough problems already. Maybe in the morning, after John had got some sleep. Before work. In the shower. Or in the bed.

Yes, the bed. He thought about it again with a sleepy smile. He could just get up and go to bed. Sherlock didn't need him. He was talking to the skull, something about McKinney and Canadians and the army and poppies and the inadvisability of buying Chinese take away from hospital vending machines…

He'd just put on his pyjamas and curl up or maybe sleep naked – Sherlock liked that and John frankly liked it too. He sighed, pressing the weight of his head harder against his cheek.

Maybe tomorrow he didn't have to work. But no, it was already tomorrow, wasn't it? Maybe it was Saturday – he felt like it could be Saturday. Did he have a Saturday shift that week? There were so many patients, he hoped Mycroft didn't need to come in and see him…

"_John!_"

John snapped his eyes open suddenly, jerking upright, and blinked in confusion. The detective's blazing grey eyes narrowed a bit when John was able to focus on them.

"It is time for work?" John asked, his voice blurry from sleep – he hadn't even realized he'd drifted off. How long had he been dozing?

"Hardly," Sherlock sniffed. "It's just past two. I've been speaking to you for several minutes now."

"Oh," John said, leaning back slightly in his chair, glancing around the flat. He'd almost hoped that by some miracle it would be clean again. He thought of their bed and the downy pillows and the sheets with that high thread count Sherlock liked so much…

"John!"

"Right, right, I'm awake," he said, nodding to keep himself moving. "What is it?"

"They found the cabbie."

"The cabbie?" John asked, confusion coursing through him. He had a moment's disorientation, as if seven years had been removed – of _course_ they'd found the cabbie, he'd died in that empty college classroom – why were they looking for a cabbie? He'd thought it was an ex-Canadian special forces soldier. Was he moonlighting as a cabbie? He thought about the moonlight – the kitchen often caught it but their bedroom didn't…

"No, John, wake up," Sherlock snapped, slapping the desk, and John jerked himself awake again. "The cabbie that drove Brace and our killer to the river."

At this, John came fully awake, blinking off the remnants of sleep.

"He's at the Yard with Lestrade," Sherlock said.

John heaved himself to his feet, feeling regret at the loss of another night's sleep.

"Let's go," he said.

* * *

><p>Lestrade was looking harassed; it was an expression he adopted entirely too often as far as Sherlock was concerned. If he'd wanted a quiet life, he should have taken some menial job with no responsibility and no interaction with the public. And he should hardly be worried about this case. The military was handling it by and large, relying on the Met only for assistance and additional security, so really, it wasn't as though Lestrade had to expend a great deal of energy into catching this killer.<p>

That was Sherlock's job anyway. The Met couldn't do this – at best they could chase their own tails and accomplish nothing. They didn't have the resources or the connections. Sherlock knew all too well that Mycroft would see to it that this remained a matter dealt with by the military police, if only to keep it largely out of the public eye. Somehow, he had even managed to keep his name out of the papers as the intended target of the explosion and was only numbered among the injured.

But they'd at least found the cabbie and had rounded him up. Sherlock let his eyes flicker over the driver through the one-way glass before he entered the interview room. The man was in his early fifties, of Indian descent, and obviously irritated that he'd been pulled off the job. He was scowling, not in the manner of someone on the defensive because he was surrounded by police officers, but in the manner of someone being inconvenienced.

Sherlock stepped into the room, followed by John. The cabbie's eyes flickered over both newcomers with disinterest, registering them then dismissing them. An experienced cabbie, then, used to acknowledging faces and not remembering them. Sherlock frowned – that didn't bode well.

He had faint calluses on his fingers where they gripped the wheel of his car for hours on end and was occasionally rotating his wrists to ease the stiffness that came from repetitive strain injuries. In all probability, he had observed that neither Sherlock nor John were intoxicated and were likely to pay their fares – but little else.

"Mister," Sherlock paused, picking up the cabbie's licence which the man had placed on the table for some police officer or another. "Ajid. My name is Sherlock Holmes, this is Doctor John Watson. I'd like you to tell me about the men you had in your cab earlier this evening. Maxen Brace and the man accompanying him."

"I've already talked to him," Ajid replied, nodding irately at Lestrade. "And that Sergeant Donovan. Told ya, I don't remember what he looked like."

"Could you describe him to a sketch artist?"

"Well yeah, if you want me to waste my time!"

"Mister Ajid, there is a professional killer in London at this very moment who pushed Mister Brace off of the Westminster Bridge after getting out of your cab, so I suggest you stop thinking about the money you could be making right now and start actually providing some details," Sherlock snapped in a cold tone, putting in all of the haughty authority that was his birthright. He so rarely had to use it – generally just a touch was enough – but he was running low on both time and patience.

It worked. Ajid stiffened and scowled but gave an ungracious nod.

Sherlock cast a quick glance at Lestrade.

"Call Holly Adams and have her come in."

"She's not on shift right now, Sherlock," Lestrade sighed.

"Pay her overtime then," Sherlock replied, bored with having to argue about it. "She's already done some work for me on this."

"What–"

"Do you have some fascination with asking useless questions?" Sherlock snapped. "Would you like to give our killer more time to plan his next assault? I'm sure no one will mind that, particularly as his attacks have become steadily more violent."

"Sherlock," John muttered under his breath but the detective ignored his husband. He didn't have time for niceties right now – the Met were dragging their feet on everything, slowing him down.

"Go!" Sherlock said, waving Lestrade out the door.

"Sherlock–" the DI began to protest and Sherlock threw his hands up in the air.

"Why am I even here if you don't want me to work, Lestrade?" he spat. Lestrade's eyes flickered to John, who was probably making some sort of conciliatory gesture, then back to Sherlock. He searched the detective's face, looking for something. Sherlock kept his expression neutral, making sure Lestrade didn't find it.

"All right," the inspector sighed. "Fine."

He left the room and left the door open. Sherlock didn't care – as long as more idiots didn't come in to interrupt him, it didn't matter who overheard.

"Describe your other passenger to me," he ordered, turning back to the cabbie. The man shot him a glare that Sherlock matched with one of his own, then Ajid sighed.

"I already told 'em, I don't remember. He was just some bloke."

"'Some bloke'? No, no, Mister Ajid, he was not just 'some bloke'. _Think!_" he smacked the table for emphasis, visibly startling the cabbie and John. "He looked like something! He wasn't simply a faceless stranger. Images, sounds, scents – whatever you remember!"

Ajid sighed, scowling.

"Average," he replied. "He was an average looking bloke. Not too tall, not like you, but taller than him," he nodded at John. "Mid forties, brown hair. That's all I remember."

"What shade of brown? Dark? Light?"

"Lighter. Like his." He nodded at John again.

"What about his voice, what did he sound like?"

"Nothin'. He didn't say anything."

_Blast!_ Sherlock thought, biting his lower lip. He wouldn't have. Not if it would have identified him as being a foreigner because that was more likely to be remembered.

"What about Brace? What did he say?"

"Just told me where to go and that's it."

Sherlock drew back slightly, pausing for a moment. He had given the cabbie their destination, knowing he was going to die. Sherlock wondered if Brace knew _how_ he was going to die, then suddenly realized how frightened he must have been. He glanced quickly back at John out of the corner of his eye again – the doctor had probably already thought of that.

_Irrelevant_, he told himself. _Can't change it._

"Anything else? Any smells? Any scars or tattoos or piercings?"

"No! Look, I told you. Just a regular bloke. No glasses, no scars, nothin' interesting. No different than arf the people that get in my cab."

_Except half the people who get into your cab are not assassins with military training_, Sherlock thought. This was getting him nowhere. From the man's description, it may as well have been John, only taller. That didn't narrow it down much – in terms of colouring, John was not that distinctive. If he were sitting in the back of a cab, his height would probably go unremarked as well.

_Just a regular bloke with the ability to get past Mycroft's security measures_, Sherlock thought. _Brilliant._

He saw Ajid's eyes flicker away from him back to the door, a somewhat startled expression on his face and Sherlock turned as Holly said:

"You know it's the middle of the night, right?"

He cocked a dark eyebrow at her.

"And you weren't at home sleeping, given how quickly you arrived and your questionable attire."

"That doesn't stop it from being the middle of the night, Sherlock," Holly sighed, folding her arms over the fabric of her short black dress. "And I was off duty, you know."

He shrugged. This was more important than some club. Holly stared at him, then shook her head, resigned.

"Mister Ajid, my name is Constable Holly Adams – although I appreciate I probably don't look like a constable right now. I'm a forensic artist. I'm going to work with you to get a sketch of the man you saw."

"The description he's provided is inadequate at best," Sherlock warned.

Holly sighed again.

"I'll see what I can do. First, though, I'm going to change and get my things. I'll be back in a few minutes."

She cast a glance at John that clearly commiserated with him about the late hour then ducked out of the room. Sherlock turned back to Ajid.

"I suggest you wrack that inferior memory of yours, Mister Ajid. You're the first person to see our killer and come out of it alive, so it's particularly in your best interests that he is caught."

The cabbie's eyes widened with alarm and Sherlock resisted the impulse to roll his own eyes – maybe that would force the man into cooperation. He gestured to John and left the room. Lestrade was standing down the hall with his arms folded, leaning against the wall.

"Got what you wanted?"

"Hardly," Sherlock sniffed. "As imperceptive as he is, it's a miracle he's not run anyone off the road."

"It's probably because he's paying attention to the road that he doesn't remember his fares," Lestrade sighed. "Holly will get what she can out of him."

"Yes, send me a scan of her sketch when it's complete."

"You're off?" Lestrade asked.

"Nothing more to do here. I've got to go speak with my brother."

"It's the middle of the night!"

"So people keep telling me – what do you expect me to do with that knowledge? Is repetition going to change the fact that Mycroft has yet to be informed? Perhaps if I stand here listening to it long enough, it will no longer be the middle of the night and therefore an acceptable hour to see my brother? Honestly, Lestrade, two in the morning, seven in the morning, what difference does it make _when_ I go? Shall we ask our killer to conduct his business during regular hours? Oh, I'm sorry, we can't. We don't know who he is or where he is and thanks to Mister Ajid's inability to be observant about anything whatsoever, we barely know what he looks like."

Lestrade gave an exasperated sigh and Sherlock felt John stiffen and shift beside him. He strode away from the DI and hoped he wouldn't run into Anderson on the way out of the Yard – he'd wasted enough time already.

John hurried to keep up with him and when they'd left the building, Sherlock hailed a cab, holding the door for John. His husband looked at him, puzzled.

"Aren't you coming? I thought you said we were going to see Mycroft."

"No, _I_ am going to see Mycroft. _You_ are going home to get some sleep." He held up a hand to forestall the argument that was forming on John's lips. "You have work in the morning, John, and you're of no use to me half asleep, which you have been almost this entire time. You're also of no use to your patients in this state, as you've often pointed out. Go home."

"But–"

Sherlock sighed – had the entire world banded together and decided it was a day in which to argue with him?

"Go _home_, John. Get some sleep. You're dead on your feet."

John stared at him a moment longer, then nodded. He slipped into the cab and put his hand on the door handle but hesitated, looking up at Sherlock as if expecting something. Sherlock looked back down at him and nodded.

He gave the cabbie the address, leaning down slightly to catch the man's eye. "I'll see you later," he said to John. John sighed, nodded, and shut the door. Sherlock watched as the cab pulled away, ensuring it turned in the right direction and that John wasn't going to redirect it to Princess Grace. Satisfied that his husband was actually listening to him for once, he then stepped into the street, raised his hand, and hailed a cab of his own.

* * *

><p>Anthea had already been to see Mycroft about Brace's death and McKinney's involvement and arrest, and Mycroft was still awake when Sherlock arrived. The detective was admitted to the room after a more thorough examination of his identification and a pat down for weapons. He suffered it silently but rolled his eyes several times. He was Mycroft's brother, after all. If he wanted to shoot Mycroft, he could easily do so when he was no longer in the hospital and under guard. Pointing this out had earned him a further delay.<p>

Mycroft's injuries looked minutely better but he himself looked worse than he had since the bombing. He was tired, his eyes rimmed with dark circles, his face pale. He turned his head slowly when Sherlock came in the room – not in his normal languid, impassive way, however. This movement was tired and resigned.

It made Sherlock pause, a flash of anger coursing through him. No one had robbed Mycroft of his self-assurance before. Even when David had been abducted, he'd retained some of that unthinking superiority, that certainty that he was in the right regardless of the circumstances.

Now he simply looked exhausted.

But he managed to push himself to a somewhat straighter sitting position when Sherlock entered the room. Mycroft gestured for some water and Sherlock gave it to him without comment.

"Where's John?" his brother asked.

"At home sleeping," Sherlock replied curtly. "I have new information for you."

His brother nodded, sipping his water slowly. The faint wincing each time he swallowed meant the broken ribs were still bothering him. There had been talk of releasing him from the hospital, but Sherlock hoped Mycroft had the sense to stay until he could start walking on his leg again. He wasn't about to play nursemaid and he wasn't sure if Angela would. It was possible, he supposed.

He filled Mycroft in on the scant details that Ajid had provided to them, watching his brother's frown deepen. Sherlock promised to send Holly's sketch to both Mycroft and Anthea via text when he received it.

"I will need whatever additional information McKinney provides," Sherlock added when he'd finished briefing his brother.

Mycroft's frown twitched and deepened more.

"Sherlock, I think you need to turn over all of your information to Anthea."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes somewhat and tilted his head fractionally.

"Oh, I see. You want me to let you pursue this now."

"Yes," Mycroft said.

"Now that we have some concrete information and a possibility of catching him, you want me to abandon it."

"No, not abandon it," Mycroft corrected. "I'll take it from here."

Sherlock fought down a surge of irritation and regarded his brother with as level an expression as he could manage.

"Ten years now, Mycroft. Ten years you hounded me to take this case and when I did so in April, I came up with nothing."

"You found Kelsi Murray's body."

"But _not_ her killer! And now I have the chance to do so, to capture a man who has at last known count murdered thirty-one people, thirty of those within the last week and a half. For a decade you knew nothing about him until I got involved."

"That's precisely why I want you to step back," Mycroft said. "He's interested in you."

"He should be – I'm a particularly interesting person. In that alone, at least, he has good taste. Mycroft, this is a _weakness_. Exploit it! That's what you do best! I will find him because he finds me fascinating. What would you do from your hospital bed anyway?" He gestured at Mycroft's recumbent figure, eyes raking over the casts and bandages. "I'm your best option and you've known that for a decade. Now that I've agreed to do it, you want me to stop."

He shook his head, pursing his lips.

"This is my case, Mycroft," he said simply. "See to it that Anthea gives me the information I need. Unless you no longer want it solved."

"Of course I do!" Mycroft snapped and Sherlock heard the edge of irritation overlying the exhaustion in his brother's tone.

"Then let me do my job. I'm certain the doctors would tell you that your priority is to rest and recover." He gave Mycroft a small, tight smile. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I have work to do. Information from Anthea. I mean it."

Mycroft managed a slight nod.

"If you're sure, Sherlock."

"Of course I'm sure, when have you ever known me not to be? Good night, Mycroft. Do try and get some sleep. It will do you a world of good."

He let himself out of the small private room, clicking the light off on the way. Once in the corridor, he shook his head at Mycroft's idiocy and wondered if perhaps the painkillers were to blame or if Mycroft simply wanted the accomplishment for himself. That wasn't like him, though, so it was undoubtedly the drugs. He'd have to talk to John and find out what Mycroft was on and if it should be substituted for something that would allow him to think properly. Sherlock really did not need his brother's medications creating more problems than they already had on their hands at the moment.

* * *

><p>Mycroft watched Sherlock leave, shutting the light off behind him. The sudden darkness silhouetted his brother in the doorway for a moment before Sherlock shut the door, leaving Mycroft alone. His outline, suddenly stark against the light from the corridor, was shocking.<p>

Mycroft wondered if Sherlock knew.

The row with John and the case had left him haggard with bags under his eyes and had taken six pounds from him – six pounds he didn't really have to spare. Mycroft hadn't seen him this thin since the car crash, but he'd put the weight back on quickly then after being discharged from the hospital, eating under John's strict supervision. And that had been understandable. He'd been badly injured; he was bound to lose some weight.

This was different. This was Sherlock barely eating and sleeping. Mycroft didn't think his brother had taken up smoking again after John had caught him out – and he was fairly certain that Sherlock would not go back to the cocaine.

But fairly certain was not the same as entirely certain.

It had been a long time since he'd seen Sherlock operating on sheer adrenaline rather than a combination of adrenaline, something approaching a proper diet and adequate sleeping patterns. He was paler than normal and looked drawn and far too young.

Underfed, overtired, and pallid.

The same way he'd been before meeting John Watson.

Mycroft wondered what would happen to his brother if John left.


	16. Chapter 16

John unlocked the front door in a hurry and took the steps to the flat two at a time. He cursed to himself as he struggled with his key in the lock and pushed the door open, nearly tripping into the flat in his haste. He glanced around, eyes skimming over the piles of papers, the files, the maps and facts sheets pinned to the walls and doors. This was how their home looked now.

"Sherlock?" he called, shutting the door behind him. "Sherlock!"

He heard a clatter coming from their bedroom and his heart faltered for a moment until he placed the sound as the rattle of their closet door and not of the screen being put back into place on the window. John drew a deep breath, trying to calm down.

He'd received a text from Sherlock demanding that he come home immediately, right as he was about to start doing the inventory check – the last thing he had to do on his Saturday shift. John had paid the nurse extra out of his own pocket to finish it for him and had run out of the surgery to catch a cab. He'd sent several text messages and left voicemails, trying to get Sherlock to tell him what was going on.

He ran through the list of other committee members in his head and wondered which one of them had died this time and how. He didn't think he could stomach another death like Brace's. Whenever he'd closed his eyes over the past two and a half days, he saw image of the man's body smeared on the asphalt. And Sherlock crouching over it, grinning.

Sherlock strode out of the bedroom, that familiar intent look on his face. It hadn't fully left his expression since this whole thing had begun, but after identifying McKinney it had become harder, more intense. There was never a moment now when John didn't see Sherlock's eyes gleaming, even when he was still and silent and thinking. There had been more prolonged periods of silence over the last two days, interspersed with manic bouts of dialogue – monologue, really, because Sherlock didn't seem the least bit interested in what John had to say. John had come home both days since then to find Sherlock in mid-tirade to the skull, only to switch his focus to John when John was at home. It scarcely seemed to matter if John was actually listening.

But occasionally he'd out himself by not noticing when Sherlock asked him a direct question and that would send the detective into a huff, throwing himself into some new avenue of research or stalking into the kitchen for a sulk. His normal sulking spot on the sofa was currently unavailable.

John was getting sick of it, sick of the whole thing. He wanted his chair back. He wanted his flat back. He wanted his husband back.

"Where would you be if you weren't here?" Sherlock demanded, crossing the room in three long strides, grasping John by the upper arms and leaning down, studying him intently.

"What?" John demanded.

"Where would you be, John?" Sherlock snapped.

"At work, Sherlock! Like I should be! What's going on? Who's died this time?"

"Died? Died? No one's died, John! I'm not talking about work! Where would you be if you weren't here or at work? Where do you go? What do you do? For how long do you do it?"

"What?" John asked, struggling to catch up and trying to shrug off Sherlock's grasp at the same time. The detective tightened his grip until John gave up. "Wait, what do you mean no one's died?"

"I mean no one's died, John! It's not that complicated a sentence!"

John felt a flash of anger that shifted some of his panic and fear. He'd just spent twenty minutes in a cab trying to keep himself calm all while imagining the worst for some poor victim.

"I understand the bloody sentence, Sherlock! But we've been dealing with murders for the past two weeks! You called me out of the blue and insist I come home – what else was I supposed to think?"

"You're free to think whatever you want – although a little more careful consideration would be appreciated," Sherlock replied in an offhanded tone that made John want to snarl. He knew, he _knew_ Sherlock never meant it. And normally, John could just shrug it off. But he was getting tired of being reminded that compared to the great Sherlock Holmes, John Watson had the intellectual capacity a toddler in a sandbox.

"If someone had died, I'd have told you," Sherlock continued. He released John and pulled out his phone, tossing it unnecessarily given the small space between them. John managed to catch it with some fumbling and Sherlock huffed.

"What?" John snapped. "You didn't have to throw it!"

Sherlock stared at him until John gave in and read the text message.

_No McKinney, no job. I don't work for free._

John read it three times before comprehension dawned and Sherlock started making impatient noises. He looked up again, some of the frustration draining away.

"He's–" John started, then looked down at the phone again. "He's just stopped?"

"Yes, obviously," Sherlock replied in a tone of voice that told John he was rolling his eyes without John having to see it. The doctor raised his head again, glaring hard, but Sherlock ignored him. "That's why we haven't had any contact in two days, why no one else has died. Why no one else _will_ die."

John felt a wave of relief so sudden and unexpected that he managed to keep himself standing upright only from long ingrained military training. He let his head drop back and closed his eyes, exhaling a deep sigh, his hold loosening on the phone.

"Thank God," he murmured. "No one should have gone the way any of them went. Especially Brace. God."

"Precisely," Sherlock answered in a clipped tone, plucking the phone from John's fingers. "Which is why I need to you to tell me where you would be if you weren't here or at work."

John raised his head again, frowning in confusion.

"What? Why does that matter?"

Sherlock heaved a sigh and dropped his head slightly to one side, arching an eyebrow as it to ask if John were serious. After a moment, he rolled his eyes again.

"Oh, very well," he muttered. "It should be obvious but I can see that it isn't." John opened his mouth to snap at the unnecessarily snippy comment but Sherlock kept talking over him – as usual. "He's not getting paid so he's not killing. He's not killing so he's not leaving us clues. But he's still out there, John. We have McKinney but we don't have him."

"I know," John replied darkly. If Sherlock noticed his tone, he didn't let on.

"Establishing some sort of understanding as to his daily activities may help establish his patterns," Sherlock said.

John frowned again, shaking his head.

"What's that got to do with me?"

Sherlock raised his hands as if appealing for some sort of divine intervention.

"Oh, I'm so sorry I'm not following your brilliant–"

"He has a job and a family. He does his job and goes home to that family. He was also a soldier. He has training similar to yours, at least the basic training. A former soldier with a civilian career – if you will – and a family. By all outward societal standards, a normal person. Whatever it is that _you_ do when you are not here or at work may help shed some light on his activities and frame of mind."

John waited for the words to make sense, to rearrange themselves into something other than what he thought he'd heard.

They didn't.

"Are you– Sherlock–" he started, then fought to regroup and sucked in a deep breath, holding it and releasing it slowly. "You're suggesting I'm like him?"

"In some ways, there are significant similarities, yes. You're both former soldiers with very specialized training that you've carried back into your civilian lives. In terms of appearance you seem similar enough – the sketch we got from Holly is not that detailed but when you consider colouring and general appearance, neither of you stands out in a crowd. You both have families – granted, he has children and you don't, but you both have somewhere to return in the evenings after work. A normal life."

John stared. He felt his hands balling into fists and forced his fingers back open.

"How dare you," he said softly.

Sherlock paused, looking surprised.

"What?" he asked.

"How dare you," John repeated, hearing the sharp edge in his voice. "You– how dare you insinuate that I'm _anything_ like him?"

"Oh, come on, John, I did not say that you go about killing people because someone's offered you money! You're the one who turned down Mycroft's offer of a bribe to spy on me, so you clearly have some sort of ethical standards that you associate with earning a living."

"You're damn right I do!" John yelled. "I don't go around beating people with cricket bats or pushing them off bridges or kidnapping and murdering little girls!"

"Yes, I know," Sherlock said. "Although you've clearly demonstrated your willingness to kill when the situation required it."

"To save your bloody life!" John shot back. "Because you were too bloody stupid just to ignore that stupid cabbie and his stupid game! I do _not_ make a habit of shooting people I don't know because of some misplaced political idea or because I thought it might be a good career move!"

John froze when Sherlock's eyebrow twitched upward and he gave John a long, piercing look. The doctor waited for the word "Afghanistan" to come out of the detective's mouth. His breath caught in his chest and his hands curled into fists again.

"And had you been listening to me, you'd have heard that I acknowledged that," Sherlock said, his voice suddenly icy, his expression locked down, hard.

"I am listening to you!" John yelled. "I'm standing here in our fucking disaster of a flat listening to you tell me that you think I'm like some sodding serial killer! Seven years, Sherlock! Seven _fucking_ years you've known me and you think that's what I deserve?"

Sherlock actually looked taken aback – John cursed on occasion but rarely yelled and even more rarely directed the two at Sherlock.

"You want to know where he is? Take a look around you!" He threw his arms wide. "He's right here! He's been here for two bloody weeks! I eat, sleep and breathe this man because _you_ do!"

"Of course I do!" Sherlock retorted. "I want to find him, John! He's killed–"

"Oh, he's killed thirty-one people, sure, Sherlock, I know! I _know_! I spent half the day shifting rubble with you praying to a god I don't even believe in that Mycroft wasn't dead under there, too! I _saw_ those bodies! I saw Kelsi Murray's little skeleton come out of the ground! I saw Laurence and Kenton dead in their homes and Brace all over the road! I saw all of that! But that isn't why you're doing this! You're doing this because he's playing a clever little game!"

John sucked in a breath and Sherlock opened his mouth to say something, but John beat him to it.

"And he's playing his clever little games because you're paying attention! Why not, Sherlock, why not? Why shouldn't he want an audience? It's fun right? It's all so fun and he's got you to play with! You have no idea where he is or who he is or what he even fucking wants! And he ends up here!"

John strode away, then spun back, extending his arms again.

"He ends up right here and he doesn't even have to _be_ here! He could be on the other side of the planet for all we know! His job is finished, it's done! You can follow me on around on my errands all you want and figure out what I do and what he's likely to do because we're both _oh so normal_ unlike you – ha, because you're such a genius! A proper genius! But what good does it do you? He's taken over your mind!"

"And what would you have me do, John?" Sherlock said. "Stop investigating?"

"Yes!" John shouted. "Yes!"

Sherlock stared at him with a blank look and John felt a moment's shock and a twinge of fear at the complete lack of expression on his husband's face. It wasn't the focused look he got when he was thinking that put him millions of miles away. It wasn't the detached look he got when he was dealing with someone he deemed an idiot but had to listen to.

It was just empty.

_Then_ there was thunder in those grey eyes, anger and darkness sweeping over his face.

"You're asking me to stop looking for the a murderer," Sherlock said flatly, but there was an undercurrent of danger in his voice, one that John didn't miss. It was deceptively subtle but he felt suddenly that it was like a venomous snake – poised to strike.

His words brought John up short.

"I'm asking you to give the case over to Mycroft," he said carefully.

It was the wrong thing to say. Sherlock drew himself up to his full height, his lips curling into a snarl.

"This is _my_ case," Sherlock said softly, his voice smooth but taut.

"Only because Mycroft called you in," John insisted. "Sherlock, he can do this. He can catch this man. Let it go. It's– look at yourself! You've lost weight and you're barely sleeping – you're a wreck! For god's sake, Sherlock, let it go!"

"Your appeal to a god in which neither of believes is irrational," Sherlock snapped. John sucked in a deep breath, pursing his lips. "And your confidence in Mycroft is misplaced. At the moment, what do you imagine he can do? Look bruised at someone? _He_ asked me to take this case because he could not make any progress! Like dozens of cases before and dozens of cases to come! _I_ am the man he goes to when he cannot get things done, John! What do you suppose turning it back over to him will accomplish?"

Sherlock moved past him, as if to return to work, then spun back fast.

"Seven years ago you asked me to care that people were dying! People are still dying all the time, John! Thirty-one people have died! Would you like me to remain unaffected by that? What is your fascination with being disappointed in me, John? My response isn't good enough if I don't care, nor is it good enough if I do! What do you want?"

"That's _not_ why you're doing this!" John shot back.

"Am I not, John? Have you developed the ability to read my mind? Or perhaps you just assume that you have ability to understand my motivations that you simply lack for everyone else?"

John stiffened, his jaw tightening.

"Oh, so sorry, have I offended you? Disappointed you? You could add it to the list of things I've done that qualify as unacceptable, I'm sure you have quite an extensive catalogue by now. Have I failed to live up to your expectations again, John?"

"Yes!" John hissed. "Quite frankly, you have! I'm sick of your games, Sherlock–"

"Seven years ago, you accused me of being cold and uncaring for not considering the victims that Moriarty was using against me! Are you upset now because I've taken an interest in this case?"

"You're doing this for fun! Just like you were doing then!"

Sherlock's eyes narrowed dangerously, flashing brightly.

"Oh, I see," he said, his voice dropping to barely a whisper. "You expect I should have changed."

"Yes! Yes! Yes, I expect that! Because I thought you had!"

"And why should I change, John? For you? Because you don't like the way I do things? Because you dislike my motivations? Because you imagine me as someone slightly different? Because you think you could take Sherlock Holmes and make him _better_, make him _acceptable_ and _normal_?"

"What? What? No! I expected that because you _have_ changed, Sherlock! You _are_ better! You've proven that! But this– no, no, you know what, it's not even this? It's the fucking smoking. A whole month you were lying to me! And as soon as you gave that up you just found another addiction! What the hell is wrong with you?"

Sherlock's expression was like chiselled marble.

"You think doing my job indicates something is wrong with me," he hissed.

"When you do it to the point of obsession, yes! We don't even know this lunatic's name and he might as well have moved into our flat! I can't even sit in my chair because _his_ case is all over it!"

"And because the mess bothers you, you think I should give up on the _one_ case I've yet to solve?" Sherlock snapped.

"Oh, so you're worried about your perfect record, is that it? The great Sherlock Holmes, defeated by a killer who's normal like his stupid husband?"

"If you ever–"

"If I ever what, Sherlock? You think it all the bloody time! You obviously thought I was too stupid to catch you smoking and you were right about that, weren't you? If some construction workers hadn't damaged some pipes and sent me home early, you'd still be sitting up there on the roof, puffing away, and I'd still be down here, nicely ignorant like you want me! Good old, John, not much to look at, bit dull, really, but he does as he's told and he's always on hand! No need for you to worry about him, because you're Sherlock Holmes, the bloody genius! Well, what about me?"

"What about you?" Sherlock yelled back.

John stopped short, as if all the air had been driven from his lungs. He stared at Sherlock, waiting for him to say something else – anything else, to apologise, to even look remorseful, but Sherlock's expression stayed cold, locked, angry. John opened his mouth then closed it again, feeling the hard twist in his heart and stomach.

"Yes," he said finally, all the fight gone out of his voice. "Yes. I think that about sums it up."

He stared at Sherlock again for a long moment and the detective stared back, grey eyes sparking. They were standing barely two steps apart but it might as well have been a continent right now. He tried to see some hint of warmth in Sherlock's expression but there was nothing. He'd been shut out. He waited another second, another ten, another twenty, hoping for something. Anything.

Then he drew a deep breath.

"All right," he said, nodding slowly. "All right. I'm going out."

"Out?" Sherlock demanded. "Out where?"

"Tricia's," John said, giving the only answer he could think of at the moment. He was still holding his keys, he realised. He was still dressed in his work clothing. Like the last time. He unlocked the door and stepped into the stairwell, blinking in the dimmer light.

"When will you be back?" Sherlock snapped.

John turned around again, looking past the detective at their flat that was covered in case files and maps and notes and all the disarray that came with living with Sherlock. It suddenly felt overwhelming and suffocating. This was supposed to be his home. But he couldn't walk through it without upsetting something that pertained to a man – a former soldier _like him_ – who pushed people off of bridges and murdered children for a living.

"I don't know," he said woodenly, then went down the stairs. He was on the pavement and hailing a cab before the door was yanked open behind him.

"John!" Sherlock shouted at him as John slipped into the cab and shut the door with a hard click. "John!"

John glanced up to see Sherlock on the pavement, expression suddenly panicked, grey eyes wide and filled with denial. He met Sherlock's gaze for a moment and the detective yelled his name again, ignoring the stares this brought from other pedestrians. John closed his eyes and turned his face away. He leaned his head back against the headrest and gave the cabbie Tricia's address.


	17. Chapter 17

Sherlock stared at the retreating cab, his pulse hammering in his ears, his vision swimming. He was aware that there were other people on the pavement and other vehicles in the street, but the information his brain normally collected was disregarded. All he could see was John's cab disappearing up the street. He stood frozen, feeling rooted to the ground, unable to move. Other pedestrians were looking at him curiously – he could almost feel it.

Suddenly, the sensation of being watched was too much and he stormed back inside, slamming the door behind him. Sherlock leaned against the wall, tilting his head back and digging the heels of his hands into his eyes. He managed a deep, sucking gasp, then slid down the wall to seated, his left leg extended in front of him, his right drawn up to his chest. He dropped his head, resting his forehead on his knee, and gripped his hair. Sherlock squeezed his eyes shut, breathing hard, then bit his lip against a moan when he realised John had walked out on him.

He heard footsteps before Mrs. Hudson's door opened and managed to push himself up fast. He stepped onto the first stair to make it appear she'd caught him going up, then schooled his expression into irritated indifference. Sherlock closed one hand over the banister to keep it from shaking visibly.

"Everything all right, Sherlock?" Mrs. Hudson asked, stepping into the hallway, looking up at him. He glanced down, acting as though he were surprised to see her there.

"Fine, Mrs. Hudson," he lied through clenched teeth, aware that his voice was little more than a hiss.

"I thought I heard shouting, dear. Had a little domestic?"

He stared at her, then recalled that her hearing was going and that she needed a hearing aid but had so far refused to get one.

"No," he replied. It wasn't precisely a lie. To call it a "little domestic" was entirely inaccurate.

He stalked up the stairs before she could ask anything else, closed the door to his flat in a hurry, then turned around slowly. Sherlock leaned back against the door, breathing hard again, aware of how suffocatingly silent it was. He could hear the echo of their last words and the reverberating finality of John slamming the door behind him.

He felt a surge of fear and frustration and the combination made his legs weak. Sherlock pressed himself harder against the door, leaning forward. He raised his eyes, letting them sweep over the flat. He saw the mess – really saw it – for the first time. Every available surface was covered, littered with piles of papers and files and maps and books.

He felt like the space in which he stood against the door was the only uncluttered area in his home – until he realized that the bedroom was still clean, because John refused to have any of Sherlock's work where they slept.

He fled into the bedroom then stopped short, closing his eyes and sucking in a deep breath.

It smelled of John. The bed was rumpled from having been slept in the previous night – John hadn't bothered making it, which was unlike him. Sherlock tried to remember the last time he had slept in their bed. Before Mycroft had been injured. And then it had only been sleeping, both of them tense at the presence of the other in the bed. Not exactly angry. Uncertain.

Sherlock sat down on the bed, suddenly exhausted. He dropped his head into his hand and shuddered as the silence in the flat pressed down on him. He felt it constricting his lungs and gasped in a deep breath, trying to push back against the cold, oppressive feeling. The flat without John was too big, too empty, too hollow. He felt that emptiness settle into his chest and leaned over, closing his eyes and raking his hands through his hair.

The memory of John's laughter assailed him without warning and his eyes flew open again as he caught his lower lip against a gasp. It had been a quiet sound, a chuckle deep in his chest that gave way to quiet moans and whimpers as Sherlock had worked his way down John's body with his tongue and teeth. He could still feel John shifting restlessly beneath him, his hands running up Sherlock's back before his fingers dug into Sherlock's shoulders.

The night before he'd caught Sherlock smoking. It felt like a lifetime ago. He remembered John in Edinburgh, in his kilt, and the image made him shudder. He'd made John shout that night, heedless of the other hotel guests.

He'd made John shout today – but in hurt and anger. The sound of John yelling at him rushed back to him, drowning out everything else. Sherlock hugged arms around himself and leaned forward even more, staring the floor, a small moan escaping his lips. He wanted to curl up and not move, but everything here reminded him of John. The sights, the smells, the lack of sounds. Each breath made him inhale John's scent in the bed and seared his lungs. His eyes stung and he squeezed them shut, refusing to give in.

He pushed himself to his feet, ignoring the momentary dizziness that came from not enough sleep or food and too much anxiety. Sherlock steadied himself with raw, unforgiving effort, and forced himself to leave the bedroom. He couldn't stay in the flat. He couldn't stay here alone with all these reminders of John. It hurt too much, hurt with every breath. He wanted to call his husband and beg and plead for John to come home, but he was terrified that John wouldn't even bother to answer. He wanted to go to Tricia's and pound on the door and demand to see John, but Tricia wouldn't let him in. He couldn't face these things, not here, not now.

There was only one other place right now he could think to go.

* * *

><p>"Let me go!"<p>

"Never."

"Sam!" Sandra protested, but undermined her disapproval by laughing and flashing him a grin over her shoulder. "I'm trying to bake."

"I don't see why you can't do that with me here," he replied, bending over enough to rest his chin on her shoulder, tightening his arms around her waist. He grinned then pressed a kiss against her cheek.

"Because I need to move around," she replied reasonably, still smiling at him.

"Well, I'll just move with you," he said and she rolled her eyes.

"Do you want me to finish these scones or not?"

"Hmm," Sam said, resting his chin on her shoulder, pretending to contemplate it. "I'll go with 'or not'."

Sandra flicked her flour-covered fingers at him. Sam coughed as he inhaled the fine powder and pulled away, laughing. Sandra slipped out his grasp and turned around, waving the small bottle she'd been holding in her left hand threateningly at him.

"A bottle of vanilla somehow fails to seem very intimidating," Sam said, advancing on her slowly.

"I could pour it over your head."

"Go on," he said with a nod and a wide grin. "I know you like the smell."

"Mm, then I might not be able to keep my hands off you," she commented.

"I'm really not seeing a problem with this," Sam replied, arching an eyebrow. Sandra reached behind her into the bowl on the counter and puffed another handful of flour into his face. He stopped, coughing and laughing, and held up his hands in a gesture of surrender.

"All right, all right, you win," he said with a grin and Sandra gave a triumphant "ha!". "Pass me the dish towel."

"I don't know, I kind of like you like that," she replied and kissed him quickly. Sam caught her face between his hands and kissed her back, leaving flour on her lips, then he snagged the towel and wiped himself off, clearing his throat to get rid of the floury taste in his mouth.

"I hope those taste better when they're finished," he commented.

"Oi!" Sandra protested. She grabbed the towel from him, swatted his arm hard with it, then wound it round his neck and pulled him down for a kiss. "Out of my kitchen, Gabriel Mitchell, and you'll be lucky if you get anything when I'm done here."

"Your threats are meaningless," he growled and kissed her again.

"Let me at least finish this. Then we'll talk."

"Talking isn't exactly what I had in mind."

"Hmm," Sandra said, standing on her toes, her lips almost touching his, her breath warm against skin. "Well then you may have to work at changing my mind. Half an hour. Have a nap. You'll need your strength."

"Will I?" he asked, cocking an eyebrow.

She just smiled, her blue eyes glinting, and unwound the towel from around his neck before hanging it back up. Sam stole another kiss then ducked out of the kitchen before she could retaliate, heading into the living room of their small flat. A nap might be welcome, actually. He eyed the couch which looked inviting and then glanced toward the bedroom, frowning. If he went to bed, he'd probably fall asleep for the rest of the day and he was trying to avoid that. Not just for the obvious reason, but because he needed to get back into a regular sleeping pattern after the murder of that Welsh MP, Brace, late Wednesday night. Falling asleep fully now would mean being awake in the middle of the night.

He probably wasn't going to avoid that anyway, but he could always hope.

He sighed and moved the newspaper that he'd left on the couch to the coffee table and was about to sit down when the sound of a key in their lock made him go cold. Sam's eyes snapped to the door, then he was going for his gun before he realized he was moving. Sandra came out of the kitchen, looking puzzled.

"Back in the kitchen!" he barked at her, swinging his gun up to the door, aiming it with practiced ease. Sandra hesitated, watching him, startled.

"Sandra!" he snapped. "Now!"

The door was pushed open and Sam stepped to block his wife from immediate view, keeping the gun trained on the door, his eyes narrowed in concentration. He held his breath, heart hammering – then his brain registered who it was.

Sherlock and John _did_ have a key to their flat, in case of emergencies.

Sherlock was standing in his door, looking pale, tired, and suddenly shocked at having a gun aimed at him. Sam kept the weapon up, feeling a sharp rush of relief and exhaustion coupled with anger. The detective stood frozen, everything in his stance suggesting he was not going to make any sudden movements.

Sam exhaled hard, aware of how fast his heart was racing, how tight his lungs felt, how shaky his legs were. He'd been all right the past two days, he really had. But had been all right with a lot of effort. He generally didn't have to work at it so much now, nearly five years later, but he did have his bad days. Particularly when he was unexpectedly confronted with a murder victim who had been pushed off a bridge to his death.

Sam had actually managed to make it home from that crime scene before throwing up everything he'd eaten that day and then sitting on the floor of the bathroom for half an hour just to make sure he wasn't going to get sick again. He'd sent an email to his boss saying he was taking a sick day the following day, had taken one of his strong sleeping pills and slept for twelve hours. When he'd awoken in the middle of the day on Thursday, feeling groggy, dehydrated, and nauseous, Sandra had been sitting cross-legged on their bed, watching him intently.

He'd realized he hadn't even left her a note. He had promised to let her know if he was going to be taking one of those pills because they knocked him out so thoroughly and for so long. Of course she'd heard the news story about Brace's death and when he checked his phone, he saw she'd been trying to reach him. That meant all night at work worrying about where he was, if he was working on that case.

Since then he hadn't taken any sleeping medications and he thought perhaps he'd had a total of eight hours sleep in the last forty-eight hours.

He didn't actually remember falling from the bridge, but that didn't make Brace's death any easier to bear. It hit far too close to home. And the reason he'd been there was standing in the door to his flat, looking like someone had just pulled his entire world from out under his feet.

"Sam," Sandra said gently.

"I know," he told her, nodding and not looking away from Sherlock. When he spoke to the detective, his voice dropped, turning into a growl. "You really think it's a good idea to just walk in here unannounced? Do you remember what happened the _last_ time someone broke into my flat?"

Sherlock looked surprised – _Of course he bloody looks surprised_, Sam thought, feeling anger flash through him, hot on the heels of the adrenaline spike. He adjusted his grip on his gun then forced himself to lower it, his muscles fighting him. He clenched his jaw and put the gun aside carefully, making sure the safety was on.

He had no doubt Sherlock remembered what had happened the last time someone had broken into Sam's flat – it wasn't a day either of them were going to forget. But he wasn't in the least bit shocked that Sherlock hadn't thought of it when deciding to break in himself.

He'd probably point out that it was a different circumstance altogether and that it was late afternoon, not the middle of the night, that it was a different flat, anything like that. Sam knew these things – he also knew Moriarty was dead and therefore in no position to invade his home, but telling himself that and getting his body to believe it were sometimes two different things.

Sherlock would really see it that way, though.

Just like he'd see a significant difference between a man falling into the river from a bridge and surviving and a man falling onto the road from a bridge and dying.

"What do you want, Sherlock?" Sam snapped, unable to shake the irritation. Sherlock looked tired. Good. Sam was tired. He wanted a decent night's sleep. He wanted an apology for having been summoned to a crime scene where he didn't need to be. He didn't remember the fall, but he remembered bits and pieces of being in the hospital afterwards. Mostly what he remembered from that was pain.

And now, whenever he closed his eyes, he saw Brace's body splattered on the road. He might not remember the actual fall, but he thought he might remember the terror. At very least, he could imagine what it must have felt like.

Sam clamped down hard on that. The three of them were still frozen in their tableau, Sam glaring at Sherlock, Sherlock staring at him, Sandra standing behind Sam. He glanced over his shoulder quickly to make sure she was all right, then swung his gaze back to Sherlock.

Sam couldn't quash the aggravation that came with having the first few moments in the past two days in which he'd felt somewhat normal be interrupted. He was as low on patience as he was on sleep and he'd gladly turned the McKinney case over to someone else. If Sherlock was there to complain about that, there would be hell to pay.

"What's so bloody important that you had to bloody well break into my flat?" he demanded, annoyed that Sherlock looked so tired and flustered – why should he? "If you were worried about me, you could have called! I actually _do_ answer my phone, you know."

There was a brief flash of befuddlement on Sherlock's face and Sam felt his jaw and shoulders tighten involuntarily. Of course. Sherlock wasn't worried about him. It had probably not even occurred to him that Sam would even be upset about anything.

"John left," Sherlock said, the first words he'd spoken, Sam realised. His voice was flat, hollow, almost stunned. Sam came up short, frowning.

"What do you mean, John left?" he demanded.

"He left," Sherlock repeated, without any inflection, any of the irritation he normally displayed when he had to repeat something.

"Well, what the bloody hell did you do this time?" Sam snapped. He knew as soon as he said it that he shouldn't have. He saw the wince of panic on Sherlock's face. But his patience was already strained and he didn't have the energy to be sympathetic.

"No, don't answer that," Sam said, cutting Sherlock off when the detective opened his mouth to reply. "I don't even want to know. I'm far too tired to be able to care – do you know_ why_ I'm tired? Because some bloody idiot called me to a crime scene where the victim was tossed off a bridge! How much do you think I've slept in the past couple of days, Sherlock? Want to give it a guess? Do you want to deduce by my face and eyes and stance how many hours I've been awake because I _can't_ sleep without seeing Brace in a puddle on the road and knowing that so easily could have been me?"

He stopped when Sandra squeezed his arm lightly, taking a breath and holding it. Sherlock was staring at him in shock and Sam let his breath out slowly through gritted teeth. Yes, of course this was the first time Sherlock was bloody well realising that.

"No, I'm not listening to any of this, not right now," Sam muttered, shaking his head and pulling away from Sandra gently. "I'm going for a walk." He stalked to the door, grabbed his keys, then turned back to face his wife, pulling his phone from his pocket.

"I've got my phone on," he said and Sandra nodded, looking concerned. Sam shook his head slightly at her – if he left and walked off the steam, he'd be all right. He knew he was being selfish, that Sherlock probably needed him, but he'd learned his own limits. Through a lot of effort, he'd learned when he needed to be selfish for his own well-being. But there were limits there, too – Sandra needed to be able to get ahold of him when he needed some time out.

"All right," she said.

"I love you," Sam said, forcing the words out, not because they were difficult to say, but because he was not in a mood to feel generous about anything.

"I love you, too."

"I'll be an hour at most."

She nodded and he stalked out the door, closing it behind him, taking care not to slam it.


	18. Chapter 18

Sherlock watched Sam go with numb shock, scarcely able to believe that it had happened twice in one day. He had given no thought to what it meant to have Sam come to the scene when Brace had died. It hadn't even crossed his mind. He'd needed Interpol information for the case. And it was a different set of circumstances entirely – but when he considered it now, he realized that Sam wouldn't see it that way. That Sam would only see what might have been for him.

But it hadn't been that way. He'd fallen into the river and survived.

Sherlock felt cold. It was only when he felt two small warm patches against his skin, one on each arm, that he registered Sandra was standing in front of him, supporting him gently, looking up at him with concerned blue eyes.

"Come and sit down," she said softly. He let himself be guided to the sofa and sank down, feeling absurdly grateful. Lightheadedness made him lean forward slightly, bracing his arms on his knees. Sandra crouched down in front of him and her eyes flickered over his face. She was assessing his health. Like John would. The realization made him feel sick and weak and he closed his eyes, dropping his head into his hands.

"When did you last eat?" Sandra asked. Sherlock stayed silent, trying to remember, and she misinterpreted his lack of response. He felt her hands curl over his and tug gently. He dropped his hands from his face and shook his head.

"I don't know," he replied.

Sandra searched his face again then nodded.

"All right. Let me make some tea. I have leftover casserole from last night. I'll heat that up for you."

She pushed herself to her feet and headed toward the small kitchen. She must have been baking, Sherlock realized belatedly. She was wearing a blue and white stripped apron and had flour on her hands and on her lips. He wasn't sure why on her lips – had she been sampling her baking? His head swam as he tried to focus.

"Sam–" he started.

"Don't worry about Sam," Sandra replied, her voice slightly muffled by the cupboards and the counter that separated the small kitchen from the rest of the flat. Then she leaned down, propping her weight on her arms on the countertop so that he could see her. "He's grown man and he'll be all right – let me take care of him. I'm good at it. He's very low on sleep right now and not at his best. None of us are when we're too tired. When was the last time you slept, Sherlock?"

He tried to remember. But thinking about that made him think of their bed that smelled like John and the rumpled sheets and the utter silence in their flat.

"I don't know," he repeated dully.

"Okay," Sandra said from the kitchen and he raised his head, meeting her eyes. She was watching him calmly, with concern.

She wasn't angry, he realized. She wasn't angry that Sam was angry and that he'd made a stupid mistake calling Sam to the crime scene on Wednesday. She was concerned. Both about her husband and about him.

She came back a few minutes later with a plate piled high with pasta and a mug of tea.

"Eat," she ordered in a voice that brooked no argument. Her medical voice. John had one of those. Sherlock stared at the plate. "Sherlock, eat, please. I'm going to go finish making up the dough for these scones and then you're going to tell me what happened. Eat _slowly_. Don't inhale it. You'll only make yourself sick."

He managed a nod and Sandra went back into the kitchen. He ate mechanically, aware that the food he was eating was good but barely tasting it. After a few minutes, Sandra came back with two tall glasses of water and set one in front of him.

"I'll bet you're dehydrated as well as hungry and tired," she said. "Drink that with the tea."

He nodded and she took his empty plate, putting it back in the kitchen. Sherlock wrapped his hands around the tea mug and picked it up, letting the warmth settle against his skin. He sipped it carefully; it wasn't as sweet as he'd like but he didn't care. It was hot. That was enough.

"Tell me what happened," Sandra said gently, sitting down beside him. She sipped from her water glass, keeping her eyes on him.

Sherlock lowered the mug and stared at the steaming liquid. He was silent for a long moment, then recounted the fight in a flat voice that masked the fear and desperation that twisted in his stomach. He'd never felt like this before – never felt so terrified of losing John. Not even when John had first caught him smoking and had gone over to Tricia's. Then he said he'd be back. This time he'd just left. He couldn't close his eyes – each time he did, he saw John getting into the cab, John looking back at him blankly.

He tried to tell himself it didn't matter, that only the work was important. He'd told himself that for so long before meeting John – and it had been true. Now he might as well have been trying to convince himself that the sky was green. It was a lie. He knew it was a lie.

Nothing was as important as John. And John had left.

Sandra listened silently, nodding in all the right places. When he finished, she didn't say anything for a long moment. Sherlock forced himself meet her eyes, hoping anxiously for some sort of reassurance there. He saw pity and concern and it made the terror even sharper.

"He just left," he said in a hollow voice then winced, the words sounding suddenly too real, too stark. "Just left."

"I know," Sandra said softly.

Sherlock stared at her, then dropped his gaze again, managing to repress a shudder. He stared at his tea without seeing it, and felt the sting in his eyes that made him squeeze them shut hard, refusing to allow himself to cry. He would _not_.

But John had walked out. Had left him.

He folded in on himself, bending over the mug of tea. He didn't care that Sandra was sitting right there – what did it matter? John had left and it was his fault. He replayed the fight again and again, screaming silently at himself each time to listen, not to say the things he'd said, to hear what John was saying, to focus. He hadn't been focusing. Yes, he had – but on the case, not on John.

John, who was always there. Who wasn't there now.

"I don't think we ever believe the person we love could leave us. Not really believe it, not deep down. Because leaving someone you love takes a lot of courage." She paused, then continued, her voice gentle but firm. "John has a lot of courage, Sherlock. He went to war in Afghanistan."

Sherlock closed his eyes tighter. Hearing that spoken out loud made what he was thinking so much more vivid and possible. He bit his lip and nodded – maybe it was no more than he deserved.

"But sometimes, doing what it takes to stay takes even more courage," she said softly and Sherlock's eyes flew open again, meeting hers. "Sometimes, walking away – walking _out_ – is the easier option." He noted that her eyes didn't dart toward the door of her own flat, but only because she was keeping her gaze firmly on him. "Sometimes, it takes a lot more to face up to what needs to be done to make things work."

She gave him a slight smile and his fingers tightened around his tea mug.

"John's not the only one in your marriage with courage, Sherlock," Sandra said gently. He opened his mouth to say something but she shook her head, holding up a hand for his silence. "When I first met him, he stayed awake nearly three days straight in the hospital waiting for you to wake up. Three days sitting by your bed, refusing to leave your room, talking to you, holding your hand, just being there with you. I see that a lot, believe me, but there was something different about John. He was terrified and he kept at it."

Sherlock nodded; he didn't remember that, of course. But he knew it had happened.

"But I also saw something else. I saw a patient who had been a terrific car wreck fighting his way back to consciousness. Through all that pain and fear and all those drugs, every single day for three days, fighting all of it just to wake up. Just for the very simple act of opening his eyes because – despite everything else – he knew someone was waiting for him. And that takes courage, too. I saw you give everything you had in the hospital, every single day, for John, even when you wanted to give up because you couldn't see. Because you wanted to make things better for him."

Sherlock stared at her, then managed a stunned nod. He'd never thought of it that way – getting better was just what the body did. It required commitment to therapies and treatments, but he'd never considered that it required courage.

How much had John had, he wondered suddenly, to go through the recovery from his war injury on his own?

"You'd be surprised how many families I see that don't have that. How many relationships fall apart when the chips are down. People realize they don't want to support someone who's going to need a lot of time and energy to recover fully. It's a terrible thing to watch, believe me. But you and John – you hung on. For each other."

She paused, considering him again. "Can I ask you something? Are you sorry?"

"God yes," Sherlock whispered, closing his eyes. With every ounce of strength he had left, he was sorry. It was all there was right now, this desperate remorse – and no way to fix it.

"Is John?"

"What?" he managed, opening his eyes again.

"You can have a one-sided fight, but only with yourself. I see that a lot, too – Sam's a champion at it when he's in a bad mood. But we can't have a fight in which one of us is completely right and the other one is completely wrong. Not really. I know you think what you did is wrong. I'm not disputing that. But making mistakes doesn't make you a terrible person. It makes you human."

"I–"

"You shouldn't have lied and you've been working too hard. You also lost your mum. And John made you take this case in April. I'm not saying it's his fault, either," she said, holding up a hand, shaking her head slightly. "He didn't know it would turn out like this. He didn't want it to. But he asked you to take it. And you did. This is your job, Sherlock. It's what you do."

"I don't know what to do now," he admitted, hating saying it. Hating admitting that weakness in front of her – and she'd seen him at his worst before – unconscious and then blind and immobile.

"Yes, you do," she replied. "And I think you can. I think you're strong enough. Just – give it a day or two. Give John some time to cool down and think about things on his end."

Sherlock was silent for a long moment, looking away. Anything was preferable than meeting her eyes right now.

"What if he doesn't come back?" he asked in a voice barely above a whisper.

"You've been married for over five, Sherlock. You've been together for over six. He's never given up on you before. Trust him not to give up so easily yet. And trust yourself to do the same. I said John was brave. He didn't run when you were in the hospital. Give him a chance not to run now."

"He _left_," Sherlock said, feeling cold as he said it, managing to look at Sandra again.

"Leaving for some space isn't the same as leaving for good. It doesn't have to be. Not if you don't let it turn into that. Both of you."

"I can't–" _g__o on without him. I can't be without him. I can't do this alone._

Sandra set her glass aside and nodded.

"I'll help you," she said.

"Sam–"

"I told you to let me take care of Sam. Sherlock, he's angry and I understand why. I think he's justified. But you can talk to him later. You can deal with him later. He can wait. And he'll be all right because I'll see to it that he is. It's been nearly five years – he knows exactly what to do when he needs help. You…" she smiled slightly, a sad smile. "I think you never even learned how to ask."

_John would agree with that_, he thought.

"Finish your tea," Sandra continued. "I'm going to put the scones in the oven and then you're going to eat some of those, too. You've lost weight and you're exhausted. This will be easier to deal with if you take care of yourself. I'm a nurse, I would know."

She rose took a step toward the kitchen, then turned back, crouching down in front of the couch again, meeting his eyes with her even gaze.

"You love John," she said. Sherlock nodded. "I know you trust him." He nodded again. "Trust yourself, too, Sherlock. You're not a failure, you're just human. And you really aren't alone. You can do this. It won't be easy but you can. You both can."

She smiled and pushed herself to her feet again, bending down and pressing her lips against his forehead. Sherlock closed his eyes in shock – the only other person who'd ever done that aside from John was his mother.

"Think of all the work you've done, Sherlock. You've made the world a much better place. For everyone. For John. Think about that a bit, instead of beating yourself up endlessly."

She smiled and left him alone with his tea. He stared at the dark brown liquid, no longer certain what to think, but slightly more certain what to do.


	19. Chapter 19

John stared into his glass of gin, gazing at the transparent liquid. He couldn't quite tell where the differentiation was between the gin and the glass and he wondered how much he'd had to drink already. It felt like a lot. When he closed his eyes the world dipped and spun with alarming intensity, and he had to wrench his eyes open again, breathing hard. John jostled the glass slightly, watching the liquid slosh back and forth gently, then drank it all in one go.

Tricia leaned forward and refilled his glass. John's eyes flickered up to her. She was a bit blurry – did he need glasses? No, he decided. It was probably the gin. He tried again to remember how much he'd had but gave up.

He probably shouldn't have been getting drunk, but he didn't much feel like listening to himself about shoulds and shouldn'ts. He stared at the gin again, noticing how the reflection of his hand through the glass was distorted, smeared.

He'd woken up dehydrated that morning, his eyes raw, his mouth parched. Not from the drinking – he'd done plenty of that the night before, too, after he and Tricia had put Josephine to bed. But Tricia had made him drink one glass of water to every glass of gin. She didn't seem to be doing that tonight – or maybe she was and he just didn't realize it. He tried to recall if any of the glasses of gin had tasted watered down but there was no distinction in his mind.

He didn't care.

He'd been dehydrated that morning from crying. John hated that feeling. He was glad Henry was in Cairo for the week because he couldn't handle anyone but Tricia at the moment. He felt terrible about it, but it had been hard enough spending the evening yesterday and the day today with Josephine. He loved her to no end, but he was exhausted and wrung out and a three year old – almost-four-year-old, as she insisted – could scarcely be expected to understand why. He'd read her a story the night before and again tonight, allowing himself be distracted by that for a short period of time.

But small distractions were all he could manage. A few minutes here, a few minutes there. Any longer than that was impossible to sustain. His thoughts kept coming back around to Sherlock.

He'd been livid yesterday – hurt and angry and raging quietly once Josephine was asleep. He'd cursed and ranted and cried and forced himself not to shout so as not to wake his goddaughter. He'd gotten blind stinking drunk, had thrown up once, then had managed to crawl into bed, exhausted. He'd awoken the next morning not knowing where he was or why he was wearing unfamiliar clothing. He barely remembered collapsing onto the guest bed in Tricia's flat after he'd managed to change from his work clothing into some clothing of Henry's she'd lent him. An old pair of sweatpants that were too long because Henry was a few inches taller than him, and an old t-shirt.

John had gone out around noon, after the worst of the hangover had subsided, and bought himself some underwear, socks, and toiletries. Everything he owned was at home, except his wallet, keys, and phone.

He hadn't wanted to go back there.

He had no idea what he'd find.

He'd spent the day being angry, angrier than he'd ever been at anything, angrier even than he'd been following his injury and his discharge and Jamie's death. That had been anger at the world, wide, encompassing and futile. This was anger at Sherlock. Narrow, heated, and probably just as futile.

_No_, he thought, staring at the gin again. That last bit was just self-pity. He knew that. He didn't like that he knew that, but he knew that.

He wasn't being fair.

_Why should I be fair?_ he snapped at himself, sudden anger burning brightly again before flaring out, leaving resigned exhaustion in its wake. John slumped a bit in his chair, still staring at the clear liquid in his glass. Why should he be fair? He could hardly ask that question without also feeling guilt buried beneath it.

Because if he could say that then so could Sherlock.

He felt his jaw tighten as he tried to ignore that – it was easier to just be hurt and angry. It was easier just to feel livid than it was to actually think.

Thinking took effort.

It also meant he had to think about himself.

What he'd said, what he'd done. The fact that he'd walked out on his husband with barely a word, leaving Sherlock yelling after him, panicked, on the pavement. The fact that he'd felt nothing while doing this, numb, shut off.

As if to balance out that lack of emotion, he felt a sudden rush now, anger, grief, terror, regret. John bit his lower lip hard, squeezing his eyes shut momentarily until the world threaten to tilt and spin again.

He was tired of fighting. Tired of fighting with Sherlock. Tired of fighting with himself.

Yesterday it had all seemed so clear. Yesterday he had felt utterly justified in saying everything he'd said and walking out. Yesterday all of that self-pity had been warranted. Yesterday he hadn't cared if he'd hurt Sherlock – no, he _had_ cared. He'd wanted to hurt him, to get Sherlock back for hurting him. It was childish but it had felt good in a primal, visceral way. John had felt a snarling satisfaction when he'd looked back and realized how frantic Sherlock had been when he'd walked out on him.

He stared at his wedding band, which gleamed gently in the lamplight. He wondered what time it was. They had started drinking sometime after Josephine had gone to bed, but he didn't know how much time had passed, nor how much he'd had. He wondered how hungover he'd be the next day at work. It didn't matter. He'd worked through worse things than a hangover.

But this time, he'd be working hungover and feeling terrible about Sherlock.

The metals of his wedding ring were warm against his skin, shining gold and bronze. It had been almost a month since they'd been cleaned, he thought, staring at the long-familiar band. Sherlock still cleaned them once a month. John had done it in June after Sibyl had died. It had been almost heartbreaking to see Sherlock realizing he'd forgotten about it in the wake of his mother's death. John had polished both rings lovingly and returned Sherlock's to his finger, smiling at the fact that it slid on as easily as it had the day they'd been married.

It would probably come off much more easily now, since Sherlock had lost so much weight. John was seized by a sudden panic that his husband would lose his wedding ring.

That would make things too real. The prospect made him shudder. He couldn't imagine Sherlock without that ring on his finger now. The surgeons had managed to pry it from his hand without ruining it following the crash. John had put it back on as soon as the swelling in Sherlock's left hand had gone down enough for him to wear it. Sherlock had still been unconscious at that point, but the simple sight of the ring against Sherlock's skin had made John feel so much better. He remembered resting his forehead lightly against the back of Sherlock's hand after that, feeling the cool touch of metal against his own skin. He remembered whispering to Sherlock, asking him to wake up.

He remembered Sherlock at St. Leonard's in Edinburgh, standing in front of him, hands on John's face, his own face so close that their breath was mingling. With a gasp, John remembered very clearly the sensation that if he'd asked Sherlock to drop the case right then, the detective would have done so without question or hesitation. He would have walked away without looking back.

John had waited four months too long.

"_All right. I'll take the case, John. Because you're asking me to. Not for the girl, not for Murray, for you." _

John tensed at the sudden memory and the rigidity sent a warning flare of pain through his left shoulder. He drew a deep breath and forced himself to exhale it slowly. The ache lessened but didn't quite vanish, hovering almost unfelt at the edge of his mind. John ignored it through effort, trying not to remember the words Sherlock had spoken to him in their hotel room in Edinburgh that spring.

But he couldn't. He couldn't stop hearing them, nor could he stop the images of the flat as a disaster, the files and notes and maps spread everywhere, or Sherlock looking gaunt, pale and tired, bent over his work, determined to find the killer.

The man John had asked him to try and find. The man who had attempted to kill Mycroft.

He thought of Sibyl's lonely grave in Buckinghamshire and of how stiff and taut Sherlock had been when they'd lowered her casket into the ground. He thought of how stunned Sherlock had been in the hospital right before she'd died – numb, really, not fully comprehending what had happened. He remembered Sherlock sitting outside that night on the small terrace off their private rooms, smoking a cigarette. John hadn't been angry at that at all, even though Sherlock hadn't told him he was going to do so. John had already obtained a nearly full pack for him, just in case.

He thought of Sherlock the first time the detective had allowed himself to cry following his mother's death and then the harsh denial of any more grief that had caused him to destroy his violin. He remembered Sherlock collapsing against him after that, finally giving way to tears. But it hadn't been enough. He'd continued fighting it, convinced he'd win if he just kept at it.

John swallowed hard, still staring at the full glass of gin.

When John's own father had died, John had been upset but more for his mother's sake than his own. His parents had been together thirty years by that point, five years longer than John had been alive. Three decades. He hadn't been particularly close to his father, but he'd loved his father nonetheless and missed him. John suspected that when William died, Sherlock would probably feel vaguely regretful and nothing more. He knew Sherlock loved his father, and that William loved his youngest son, but in an odd, detached way.

When Harry had died, John had made it through because of Sherlock. But he'd known how to ask, too, how to say what he needed. He'd learned that somewhere along the way, maybe from Tricia, maybe from being in the army, maybe from being shot and being in therapy afterwards. He thought about how he'd felt when he'd learned Jamie had died the same day he'd been shot. It had been quick and he'd probably never known he'd been hit. John had barely been aware of being sent back to England and by the time he was coming out of his morphine induced oblivion, Jamie had already been buried. And it had taken John nearly two days to believe the nurses weren't lying about it. That hadn't been quick. He remembered being so angry he'd tried to get up before he was able, before he had fully realized he wasn't at Bastion anymore, intent on finding Tricia and getting her to tell him that it wasn't true, because she wouldn't lie to him or play stupid games.

He wondered suddenly how often Sherlock had tried to convince himself Sibyl hadn't really died – or how often he'd had to remind himself of the reality.

_No wonder_, he thought. _No wonder he's doing this._

The killer, the smoking. A means of distracting his overly active mind.

"_Think about it if were me. If that's what you need to make this work for you, then think about it that way. Be as selfish as you damn well want to be, but _take the case_."_

John's lips twitched with dry humour. He'd given Sherlock permission.

"_Be as selfish as you damn well want to be."_

And he hadn't meant to be, John thought. He hadn't. All those years they'd been together, John knew who his husband was. Sherlock was wrong – John didn't want him to change, not in the way Sherlock thought. Relationships changed people all the time. Looking back now, he could see how much Sherlock had grown since they'd first gotten together, but he could see it in himself, too. He wasn't the same person. He couldn't be. Nor was Sherlock. But John didn't think he had fundamentally changed. He still valued what made him _him_ – being a doctor, caring for people. And he still valued what made Sherlock _Sherlock._ That mad genius, that lightning fast mind, that ability to find connections that other people would never see, let alone contemplate.

Sherlock had told John once, years ago, that there were no heroes and if there were, that he wouldn't be one. But he'd rid the world of James Moriarty without hesitating. Even though he could have kept playing the man's dangerous game. Even though he had been enthralled by the prospect of having an opponent so equally matched.

And he'd put effort into their relationship, he really had. John was tired of meeting him more than halfway, but maybe Sherlock had never bothered because John had always been willing to accommodate him so much. Maybe Sherlock had never even realized what John was doing – maybe _John_ had never realized it. He was so used to making concessions for Sherlock because his husband was a genius. But that was it. He was a _genius_. He could figure these things out.

But no one ever let him.

No one had ever trusted him to do it so he didn't.

No one except Sibyl.

John stared at his glass, comprehending.

She'd been the first person Sherlock had ever trusted because she was the first person to really trust him. To hold him accountable about his actions and his words. John thought about how Mycroft treated Sherlock – like he was still a child. It had been better the past several years but Mycroft was still Mycroft.

And Sherlock was still Sherlock.

John knew he hadn't really wanted that to change. But that he, and everyone else, had wanted results from this case and didn't care how they got them. Sherlock had obliged them as much as he could – overworking himself to help deal with Sibyl's death – and everyone had decided they didn't like his methods. _John_ had decided he didn't like his methods.

Well, he didn't. Because they were going to kill him. But blaming Sherlock for that was not only wrong, it was stupid.

He missed his husband so suddenly that it hurt and he couldn't swallow on the grunt that forced itself from his throat. He felt small and alone and knew that was how Sherlock must have felt, standing on the pavement the day before, shouting after John's cab. He'd watched his mother die, part of his world collapsing around him. Then he'd watched John walk away from him.

He was still angry – Sherlock shouldn't have lied. He shouldn't have kept something so significant from John. But he hadn't been doing it to hurt anyone. He'd been doing it to _keep_ from hurting.

John closed his eyes.

"I want to go home," he said, the words out of his mouth before he'd even really thought them.

"I think that's a good idea," Tricia replied.


	20. Chapter 20

"What?" John asked, looking up quickly, the sudden movement making his head swim. He focused on Tricia as hard as he could. She was curled up in her chair, bare feet pressed against the arm, holding a glass of gin, although it didn't look like she'd had very much. John wondered again how much he'd had.

"I said I think that's a good idea," she repeated.

John blinked.

"Oh," he managed. He'd been expecting an argument from her, given all the thing he'd said yesterday and earlier that day about Sherlock – how tired he was, how angry, how hurt, how frustrated. "You do?"

"Well, maybe not good per se," she replied. "But probably the right decision, given everything you just said."

John stared.

"What?" he asked.

She stared back at him, then her lips twitched into a small smile.

"Did you even realize you were talking out loud?" she asked.

John looked down at his glass then up at her again, swallowing in surprise.

"No," he admitted.

Tricia smiled again and shifted so that she was sitting cross-legged, leaning forward with her elbows propped on her knees. John met her gaze with some effort – the alcohol was making it hard to focus so directly. She smiled slightly at him and John let out a sigh, running through everything he thought he'd been thinking in the privacy of his own mind. He must have sounded like a rambling madman.

John closed his eyes, ignoring the spinning sensation, and settled more deeply into the cushions on his chair. He pressed the fingertips of his left hand against his forehead, then rubbed the bridge of his nose.

"If I go home, isn't it just like making all the concessions again?" he muttered. He felt drained by the idea – he just wanted to stop being the one who made most of the effort, who took most of the first steps toward righting things when they'd had a row.

"Well, it _is _your home, too," Tricia pointed out. John opened his eyes and gave her a tired smirk. "At some point, you will have to go back there. And I really don't think Sherlock is going to come here."

John managed a dry chuckle.

"Yeah, he's kind of scared of you."

Tricia's lips twitched, tugging up into a half smile.

"I know. And I'd have some choice words for him right now, John, believe me. But even if he did come here, this is not really the place to sort things out, is it?"

John thought about that, then shook his head slowly to keep the world from shifting too much with the movement. Tricia put her glass aside then unfolded her legs in a smooth movement. She stood and crouched next to him, heaving one of his arms over her shoulders.

"Come on," she said, grunting, half hauling him upright. John teetered unsteadily at the sudden change combined with far too much gin and leaned his weight heavily against her until he found his feet. She was still strong enough to manhandle him he realised with an absurd touch of pride. The first time they'd really met had come when she'd ploughed him to the ground in an inelegant tackle to keep him from being hit by debris from gunfire.

_Some things don't change_, he thought as he staggered to the spare room with her help.

"I'll get you some water," Tricia said as John slumped onto the bed. "Then you need to get some sleep. Go to work tomorrow, make sure you get rid of the hangover you're sure to have before you do anything. Don't rush it, John. If you need to stay longer, you can. If you go home and need to come back, you can. I don't mind and Jo certainly doesn't." John managed a smile at that last bit. "But I think you need to go home for yourself as much as for Sherlock. Okay?"

He managed a nod. Tricia put a hand on his cheek and smiled at him.

"I'll be right back with that water. Don't fall to sleep," she ordered. She gave him a quick kiss on the forehead then disappeared out the door and down the hall.

* * *

><p>John stood in front of the door, staring at the scratched and worn brass numbers. He wasn't sure how long he'd been standing there, but when he started to notice other pedestrians giving him odd looks, he sighed and fished his keys out of his pocket. John unlocked the door soundlessly and let himself back into the old house, shutting against just as quietly. He kept his back to the stairs for a moment, then turned around slowly.<p>

He wasn't sure what he'd expected, but the staircase up to his flat looked exactly the same. John raised his eyes to the flat door above and just stared at it for a long moment. He had no idea what was behind it – was Sherlock even home? Was he out trying to apprehend the killer? What would the flat look like? He needed to brace himself for a messy and empty flat. As much as he wanted Sherlock to miraculously understand what he needed, John knew that was unlikely. He'd have to stand up for himself. He didn't do enough of that, not when it really counted.

He climbed the stairs slowly, aware he was putting off the inevitable for a few more precious seconds. John kept a sharp ear open but heard no sounds coming from above. He tried not to feel disappointed – it wasn't as though he'd called Sherlock to tell him he was coming home. It had been over two days since he'd left. If the detective had been waiting for him to just show up again, he might have gotten frustrated with the lack of results.

John tugged absently on the sleeves of his dress shirt and stared at the door to his own flat before taking a deep breath. He'd been to war in Afghanistan twice. He'd faced down armed men on a regular basis and had survived. He could do this. Somehow, Afghanistan seemed almost preferable.

John let himself in quietly, uncertain as to why he was trying to be silent, then stopped he'd pushed the door open enough to see the flat.

It was gleaming.

Gone were the piles of papers, the files, the sheets and maps pinned to the walls – all of it. Not a single piece of paper from the case remained, no hint of a file or even a note scrawled in Sherlock's familiar handwriting. There wasn't even a scatter of pens on the desk. The surfaces that had been covered with the case files were bare and wiped down so that they shone. Even the framed wedding photograph had been carefully dusted. The sight of that made John pause and he sucked in a deep, silent breath against the sudden tightness in his lungs.

Everything was neatly put away – there weren't any stray dishes or mugs lying around, Sherlock's violin was in its case in its normal spot, even the Union Jack pillow was resting on John's armchair.

John's armchair. The last time he'd seen it, it had been buried under files, completely inaccessible, and Sherlock had snapped at him when he'd made to unearth it. Now it was clutter-free and inviting. He just wanted to sit down in his own home. Such a simple thing. He thought of all the times he'd sat there, sipping tea and doing his crosswords or reading or watching telly. Or working on some case of Sherlock's while the detective paced the flat, muttering to himself or to the skull or to John. The sound of silence was so unusual – he'd grown accustomed to the monologues and the deductions and the admonishments to think. If they had ever gone, he would have missed them. Really missed them.

But not all of it. He wasn't sorry to see this case go. He'd had enough of the killer with his mad little nursery rhymes and fairy tales and puzzles. Wanting Sherlock to give up one case was not the same as wanting him to give up all cases.

He hoped his husband knew that. John turned his eyes to Sherlock's chair where the detective was sleeping, slumped over. It looked uncomfortable: he was slouched down with his head tilted back enough to rest on the back cushion. His left leg was drawn up onto the chair and his right was in front of him to brace himself. He'd probably fallen asleep with his head propped on his hand, but had slumped out of that position at some point.

John stayed still, reluctant to wake Sherlock. He knew this was partly because he didn't really want to have the conversations they needed to have, but also because Sherlock desperately needed the sleep. John couldn't tell how long his husband had been out – he had obviously shaved that morning and his clothing looked fairly fresh, so he'd been awake at some point. He was wearing the purple shirt John loved so much and black trousers with matching black shoes and socks. Sherlock had been expecting – something. John just didn't know what. Had Sherlock known he was going to come home? Or had he been preparing just in case?

John wondered suddenly where the case files had all gone. Mycroft, probably. He blinked in shock. If he was right about that, then Sherlock had listened to him about turning the case over to his brother. That meant that Sherlock was admitting defeat for John's sake and breaking his perfect record, and that he was willing to let Mycroft see some form of weakness. John didn't think of it as weakness – it just needed to be done. But Sherlock kept a mental tally sheet of his interactions with Mycroft and would see it as a concession. John hoped that he wouldn't feel resentful about it.

He also hoped Mycroft had enough sense not to lord it over his brother's head. The last thing Sherlock needed now was any kind of condescension from his older brother. Nor did he need Mycroft guilting him about turning away from the case.

Mycroft was probably already concerned about Sherlock – he wouldn't have failed to notice that his younger brother had lost an alarming amount of weight in a short period of time. And he'd have been able to spot how little Sherlock was sleeping. John really hoped Mycroft kept his mouth shut about that, too. Sherlock wasn't going to listen to pointed comments and so-called advice from Mycroft and John didn't need anyone making it worse at the moment.

_Sherlock_ didn't need anyone making worse at the moment, either.

_Hell,_ John thought. _Neither of us needs it. In fact, I think we just need everyone to mind their own business for awhile._

John shut the door very quietly and didn't lock it so as not to wake Sherlock. He was surprised that the key in the lock hadn't woken his husband in the first place, even if John had been very quiet about the whole thing. He kept his eyes on his husband as he toed off his own shoes and put his keys down on the small table beside the door. The gentle clink of metal against wood made Sherlock stir and he shifted his head, his expression tightening then relaxing again. John just waited. He put his wallet next to his keys, the leather making no sound as he set it down.

Sherlock shifted again, his right hand twitching, and he grimaced slightly then blinked his eyes open. For a moment – one of those infrequent moments John so rarely saw – the detective seemed not to notice him, to be somewhat confused about where he was. John knew that meant Sherlock was far more tired than he was letting on, or even looked. Normally when he woke up, he skipped the groggy few minutes that most people took to re-centre themselves.

He blinked a few more times, grey eyes unseeing, then stiffened slightly - in shock, not in apprehension, John thought. Sherlock stayed still, as if any sudden movement might startle John into leaving again, and slid his slowly eyes to his husband. John watched him without relinquishing his position by the door, meeting Sherlock's gaze with an equanimity that he did not really feel. Everything they had to sort out seemed to yawn in front of him.

_But at least we're both here_, John told himself firmly, and was surprised when it made him feel better.

Sherlock stared at him for a moment, looking shocked, as if he didn't believe John was actually there. He licked his lips quickly – a nervous movement that John followed automatically with his eyes. He felt a jolt course down his spine when he realized that simple motion that Sherlock probably was barely aware of making stirred desire in him, making his lips twitch into a bare smile.

_At least that's still there_, he thought.

"You came back," Sherlock said, his voice soft in the silence of the flat.

"I came home," John corrected. "Not back."

Sherlock's brow furrowed.

"It's– I– _we_ can't go back to the way things were," John said, then held up a hand quickly at the flash of raw panic that crossed Sherlock's features. "I don't mean that, Sherlock! I mean there are things that need to change. Things we _both_ need to change. Not just you. Things we've been doing that we can't do anymore. But we can handle it."

Sherlock's eyes flickered quickly over his face and he nodded, biting his lower lip.

"We have a lot to talk about," John said quietly.

Sherlock was silent and still for a moment, then nodded.

"I know," he replied, his eyes dropping away for a second before meeting John's again.

John hesitated before moving toward his chair. It would be good to sit down in it again, although part of him just wanted to curl up on the sofa with Sherlock and not talk at all, just sit. He knew that wouldn't get them anywhere, though, and there was too much between them right now to pretend otherwise.

On the way by, Sherlock reached out, snagging John's right hand with his left. John took it, then turned himself just enough to wrap his left hand around Sherlock's instead. He felt the metal of Sherlock's wedding band – which was loose, he could feel that, too – and knew his husband could feel the same touch against his skin. Sherlock's fingers curled tightly around his and John squeezed back just as hard. He felt tension and relief in Sherlock's grasp and loosened his hold enough to interlace their fingers. They stayed that way for a moment, not looking at each other, just holding on. John raised their joined hands and pressed a kiss against the back of Sherlock's hand. He let his lips linger then disentangled himself gently and sat down.


	21. Chapter 21

They stared at each other in an awkward, uncertain silence. John leaned forward slightly, resting his elbows on his knees, lacing his fingers together. Sherlock shifted in his chair, drawing his legs up to his chest before a frown creased his features. He adjusted his position so that both of his feet were on the floor and his hands rested on his thighs – he was tense, John noted, but he was also aware of his body language. That was pretty much a first for Sherlock. He was so good at reading it in other people to collect information he wanted but rubbish at being aware of his own.

John thought of all of the times Sherlock had read his body language and all of the things he gleaned from it. He wondered what Sherlock was reading now. Reluctance, that was probably obvious. He might as well have it written on his forehead. Sherlock looked the same.

Neither of them wanted to start the conversation, he realized. John felt he shouldn't have to and kept his silence. He'd made a promise to himself to stop making so many concessions to Sherlock – that would help both of them, even if Sherlock wasn't going to like it. He was going to have to get used to not getting his way so much. Everyone gave into him eventually, because it was just easier. John thought back to the past seven years that they'd known each other – maybe it really hadn't been easier in the long run. It had brought them here, after all.

Sherlock was watching him carefully, as it waiting for some cue. John swallowed a sigh – he'd seen that look a lot in the past couple of weeks. He unlaced his fingers and rubbed his palms together. It was a nervous movement and he knew it, but he couldn't help it.

With a jolt, the last thing Sherlock had yelled at him came back to John.

"_What about you?"_

John remembered the intonation, although he hadn't paid attention to it at the time. He realized with a hard shock that Sherlock hadn't been cruel or dismissive – he'd really been asking. He'd wanted John to tell him what he wanted. He'd wanted it laid out so that he knew what to do.

John glanced away, exhaling a slow deep breath, rubbing the left side of his nose absently. When he glanced back, Sherlock was still watching him with concern mixed with apprehension and confusion. John swallowed on a comment – he really, really could not be the one to begin this conversation. He knew he'd never forgive himself if he did and he'd never forget that he'd done it either. And he'd look back and know he'd just caved again.

"Are you hungry?" Sherlock asked, and the unexpectedness of the question brought John up short. He paused, evaluating himself.

"Yes, I am," he replied. He hadn't eaten much that day because of the hangover he'd had that morning. And he'd been busy at work so there hadn't been much time to eat, either. On the way home, he'd been too jumpy to feel hungry but now that Sherlock had drawn attention to it, his stomach rumbled unhappily.

Sherlock hesitated again.

"Chinese?" he asked.

John thought about that – they'd had Chinese during the case, on one tense night, and he thought maybe he should ask for something else. Indian, Thai. But neither of those sounded appealing right now. He didn't want spicy and rich, he wanted heavy and salty. And Sherlock needed the calories in a bad way. John evaluated his husband's face carefully; he had deep circles under his eyes that contrasted sharply with his pale skin.

"Yes," John replied.

Sherlock hesitated another moment before pulling out his phone and going into the kitchen. John listened with half an ear as the detective ordered, picking their favourites. He was glad Sherlock was getting something he enjoyed; it meant he was likely to eat something. He was going to have two full plates if John had anything to say about it. Which he intended to.

"Do you want some tea?" Sherlock asked, coming back into the living room, hovering near the doors to the kitchen. John's lips twitched into a bare smile and he glanced over his shoulder.

"I'm all right," he replied. Sherlock nodded, then fiddled with his phone. John's eyes darted down to his husband's hands and his smile faded into a frown when he saw that Sherlock's ring was visibly loose on his finger. Not a lot, but noticeable.

Sherlock was silent for a long moment, looking down at his phone, then he raised his grey eyes and met John's gaze.

"I'm sorry," he said.

John nodded.

"I'm sorry, too."

Sherlock exhaled hard, looking away, the muscles in his jaw clenching, his nostrils flaring slightly. John waited a moment, but Sherlock stayed tense and turned away.

"Did you think I wouldn't be?" John asked softly.

Sherlock managed a tight nod and then forced himself to look back at John. The doctor saw a horrible uncertainty there – he really did think this was all his fault. John sighed and beckoned with his left hand.

"Come here," he said. Sherlock looked startled, taking half a step toward him, then hesitated again. "Come here," John repeated.

Sherlock put his phone back in his pocket and crossed the room to stand in front of John. The doctor looked up, craning his head back. In this position, Sherlock towered over him far more than normal.

"Sit down," John sighed. Sherlock folded his legs, sinking down to his knees, and John rolled his eyes.

"Not on your knees, please," he said. "It's a little – distracting."

At this, a smile twitched on Sherlock's lips and reached his eyes. He tried to suppress it, John could see, but it didn't quite work. But he shifted so he was sitting down fully, his legs crossed, his spine straight. John glanced down at his husband but he didn't like this either. He slid from his chair without a word and Sherlock tried to back up a bit, but John pinned him where he was with his legs. Sherlock gave him a surprised look, then unfolded his legs so that his feet rested against John's hips, his knees bent under John's. John put his hands down, his fingers circling Sherlock's ankles. They were noticeably thinner, too, and the sudden sensation alarmed him. It must have shown on his face, because Sherlock looked concerned.

"You're eating at least two plates tonight," John said in a voice that brooked no argument. Sherlock nodded obediently and John paused. He ordering Sherlock about like a little child and Sherlock was listening.

_No_, he thought. _Let's not keep doing that._

He leaned forward and raised his left hand, running his thumb along Sherlock's bottom lip. The detective parted his lips slightly and John could feel the change along the skin where it was dry on the outer edge and moist on the inner edge. The sensation sent a shiver down his spine and he wondered if he should just push them both back onto the floor and forget about talking altogether. The brief gleam in Sherlock's eyes told him he wasn't alone in that contemplation.

But it wouldn't work. It wouldn't solve anything. They both knew that.

"Can you tell me how much weight you've lost?" he asked and doesn't miss the brief wince that crossed Sherlock's face.

"Six and a half pounds," the detective murmured, eyes sliding away. John cupped Sherlock's chin and applied a gentle pressure with his thumb until Sherlock brought his eyes back up reluctantly.

"I want you to take better care of yourself," John said gently. "Not just for me. For you."

Sherlock's eyes flickered away again and John waited. Sherlock's expression was dark and somewhat closed off. Whatever was coming, John knew he probably deserved it. He wondered how long they'd sit here – well, until their food arrived, he supposed. He bid a reluctant farewell to the idea of a good night's sleep again tonight – but at least he wouldn't be hung over tomorrow morning.

"You left me," Sherlock murmured, still looking away.

John let out a deep breath.

"I know," he said.

"Twice," Sherlock added, his voice taking on a hard edge.

John nodded.

"I– had to. For myself. It's– I didn't want to, Sherlock. But you hurt me."

"And you hurt me," Sherlock snapped, his eyes flashing back to meet John's. "You insist that I need to talk to you but you left me nonetheless."

John drew another deep breath before letting it out slowly.

"And if I'd stayed, we would have spent the whole time hurting each other more, Sherlock. Sometimes we need space. I did, anyway."

Sherlock glanced away again, his grey eyes focused on some point over John's shoulder. He was more tense now, his expression tight around the edges, but John could see that he was deliberately keeping himself from shutting down altogether.

"I don't understand what you want," the detective muttered and John knew how unhappy that made him. He _hated_ not understanding what John wanted because normally he read John like a book. "You insisted I take the case in April and now you insist that I stop."

John sighed, dropping his head slightly, then looking back up. He took Sherlock's hands and ran his thumb over Sherlock's wedding band, alarmed at how easily it turned against his skin. Sherlock tensed slightly at the sensation and looked down as well.

"I don't always want one thing," John sighed, looking back up, meeting his husband's eyes. "I did want you to take the case in April. But neither of us knew it was going to turn into this. If I'd had any idea how much this killer was going to play with us– with _you_, I wouldn't have asked you to do it. Sherlock, I didn't want this to happen. Any of it. I just wanted you to solve the case and find Kelsi Murray and her killer."

"I could still find him," Sherlock snapped.

John wrapped his fingers around Sherlock's wedding ring and pulled it off. Sherlock started visibly, pulling back, his eyes widening with shock.

"Is it worth this?" John asked softly. Sherlock wrapped his hand fast around John's, a hard warning look flashing in his eyes. John shook his head. "I don't mean me. Is it worth what you're doing to yourself?"

"Yes, you mean you!" Sherlock snapped, his voice sharp with anger. "You told me to take the case for you and you told me to stop. You've made it quite clear that this is about you, John."

John held up his hands in a pacifying gesture but nodded. Sherlock was right. He was doing it again, trying to avoid taking a stand and demanding that he be treated the way he wanted to be treated. John took a deep breath and nodded again.

"Okay, you're right," he said. "You're right. I want you to do this for me. I wanted you to take the case for me in April and now I want you to stop. I want you to listen to me, to listen to what I want."

"_Why_?" Sherlock hissed. "John, why have you changed your mind? Contrary to what you insist on believing, I cannot read your thoughts. I can't keep up with these changes in opinion, nor do I understand this! You nearly walked out on me in April when I refused to take the case and now you've walked out on me twice, once _because_ of this case!"

"I know," John said softly, interrupting Sherlock's rant. The detective stilled, his expression tense.

"You have a history of simply walking away when you're angry," Sherlock pointed out, his tone cold. John drew a deep breath but nodded again.

"I know. Look, Sherlock, sometimes it's just easier for me to do that. I don't like to fight. I– when Harry was drinking, it was simpler just to walk away rather than try and reason with her."

"I'm not Harry," Sherlock said in a hard voice.

"And I'm still me," John replied. "And you're not exactly open and communicative when you're upset, you know. You sulk and refuse to talk. So what else should I do, Sherlock? Try and talk to you when you won't answer? I might as well be talking to the walls when you get like that! You can leave without going anywhere just by sulking and not talking to me! I like to get some space to think about things! What's wrong with that?"

"What's wrong with that, John, is that you _walked out on me_ for two days and I heard nothing! Nothing! I knew where you were but nothing else! I didn't know if you were coming home or when or if you were planning on divorcing me or simply never speaking to me again! Two days, John! Two days!"

"You could have called me!" John shot back.

"Would you have answered?" Sherlock growled.

John opened his mouth to reply then shut it again abruptly. Sherlock gave a soft huff and looked away.

"Yes," he murmured. "As I thought."

"That isn't fair!" John snapped.

"No?" Sherlock replied, his eyes darting back. "No, perhaps it's not. But nor is it fair that you simply left me without a word for two days. Yet you did. And now you're upset that I didn't contact you when you made no effort to contact me."

"I–"

"Am I completely in the wrong then, John?" Sherlock demanded. "You apologized, but did you do so simply because you think it's easier? Is this all my fault?"

John sighed, shaking his head, holding up his hands. They were getting nowhere.

"No, no," he said. "No, Sherlock, it's not all your fault. It's not all my fault. I– get that you're upset. I do. I'm upset, too. And– " he drew a deep breath. "You're probably right. I need to stop walking away when I'm angry. I'll work on that."

"And in return? What do you require of me?"

John felt his heart twist a little bit and saw Sherlock react to the expression on his face.

"It that how it is for you?" he asked softly. "Are you giving in because I gave you something? Are you keeping score?"

Sherlock drew back slightly but looked alarmed. John realised he was still holding the detective's wedding band and opened his hand. Sherlock snatched it from him but kept hold of it in his fist rather than putting it back on.

"I'm not trying to change you, Sherlock," John said, his eyes focused on Sherlock's closed left hand. "I know that's what you think. Being with me has changed you. But being with you has changed me. It's just how things are. I don't– I don't have some perfect template of you in my head that I'm trying to turn you into. There are things you do that I'd rather you didn't–"

He was cut off suddenly by the buzz from the door. Sherlock glanced over his shoulder and then disentangled himself from John, slipping his wedding ring back onto his finger. John watched the movement, remembering the first time he'd put the ring on Sherlock's hand, how awed he'd felt. How lucky. He remembered splaying his left hand over Sherlock's heart that night in bed, captivated by the colours of the metals against Sherlock's pale skin.

He felt so far from that now. But not as far as yesterday.

Sherlock clattered down the stairs to get their food. With a sigh, John pushed himself to his feet and went into the kitchen to get plates and cutlery. Sherlock came back upstairs and deposited the bag on the counter.

"What things?" he asked.

"What?"

"What things do I do that you rather I didn't?" Sherlock demanded in a snappish voice.

John sighed.

"Sulk. Make me give in to you all the time. Not listen to me. Act like you haven't the faintest idea what I want when it's not what _you_ want."

Sherlock stared at him while John untied the bag and put the take away containers on the counter.

"Correct me if I'm wrong, but you want me to know what you want, but you also want me to tell you when I want something?" he enquired, arching an eyebrow coolly. "You did say that I should ask you for help when needed."

John paused in the act of opening a container then leaned on the counter, putting his head in his hands and exhaling a sharp sigh.

"Yes," he muttered. "That is what I want. But you're right: it doesn't make much sense, does it?"

"No, it doesn't," Sherlock agreed flatly. John felt his lips twitch with no real humour. He glanced up to see Sherlock leaning against the doorframe, his arms folded over his thin chest. In the dim light of the kitchen, the shadows under his eyes seemed darker.

"I would like you not to walk out when you're angry," Sherlock said, his voice taut. "I would also like you not to act as though I cannot take care of myself."

"Then I want you to take better care of yourself," John sighed.

Sherlock's eyes narrowed somewhat. John straightened, leaning back a bit, feeling tired.

"We're not being particularly productive," Sherlock commented in a clipped tone.

"No," John agreed. "We're not." He turned away from the counter, curling his left hand around the edge, facing his husband. Then he hesitated, uncertain if he should continue. One of Sherlock's eyebrows twitched upward. He leaned forward slightly, eyes intent on John's face.

"Since I can't read your mind, you'll have to tell me the reason you're hesitating right now," he said.

John sighed again.

"I said it would take time. And it will. We're not going to sort this out tonight, Sherlock. Not all of it."

Sherlock was silent for a long moment.

"But we're both here," he pointed out.

John nodded.

"We're both here." It was a start. He rubbed his face and watched Sherlock carefully. Despite it all, it actually felt good not to be alone in this anymore.

Sherlock glanced over his shoulder back into the living room and John wondered if he was thinking of escaping back in there. The idea almost appealed to John as well – then he realized he was just mentally stepping back again. If they were in separate rooms, it meant physical space. John had had enough of that. Rather, he knew their relationship had had enough of that, even if he wanted more.

"Of all the things I have learned about you, John, the most pertinent right now is that you feel we will both be better for a good meal."

John stared at Sherlock then dropped his head into his hand and began to chuckle helplessly. He knew it wasn't even that funny, but he was tired and hungry and needed something to break the tension. He raised his head again when he felt Sherlock's hand curl over his and tug gently.

"What?" John asked.

Sherlock pulled him a step away from the counter and John glanced back at the take away containers and the plates he'd spread out.

"In a few minutes," Sherlock promised. He took John's left arm and wound it round his back. John rested his hand on Sherlock's mid back then let it drop to the small of the back and received an irritated look.

"On my upper back, John," his husband ordered. Mystified, John obeyed and Sherlock settled his right hand on John's upper arm. He clasped John's right hand with his left and John suddenly had an idea what was going on.

"We're dancing?" he asked.

"Mm," Sherlock agreed with a brief nod.

"With no music and in our kitchen?"

"We have the whole flat," Sherlock pointed out. John glanced over Sherlock's shoulder at the living room – it was still filled with obstacles. He looked back up with a smile. The last time they'd done this had been on their wedding day.

"We don't dance nearly enough," John said.

"I'm not often inclined to let you lead," Sherlock replied with a slight warning in his voice, arching an eyebrow. It hadn't escaped John's notice that he'd been positioned to lead. He unwound his hand from Sherlock's, earning a questioning look. John just shook his head and put his hand on Sherlock's shoulder. He waited until the detective conceded and put his left hand on the small of John's back.

"This is good right here," the doctor said. Sherlock smirked, tilting his head back slightly and rolled his eyes to the ceiling. But he took half a step forward, folding John into his arms and resting his chin against the top of John's head. John dropped both his arms to wrap them around Sherlock's waist. He felt the smooth slide of silk against his skin and inhaled the subtle cologne mixed with the scent that was just Sherlock.

John closed his eyes, letting himself appreciate the moment. He knew this wasn't it, and he knew Sherlock understood that, too. But he felt a little better equipped to face everything they'd need to sort out now. At least they both wanted to do it, and they'd be doing it together.

It wouldn't be easy, he thought, and there would be a lot to get through. But it would be worth it.


	22. Epilogue

Mycroft was aware that Angela was there and that David was not before he opened his eyes. He could smell her perfume, the subtlest touch of lavender. She had always been partial to that scent. So had he. But there was no patterned breathing, no movement, and no small and quiet comments that would indicate their son was with her. That wasn't surprising – David was a young man and not particularly given to being confined in hospital for long periods of time. And it was early morning. That was evident by the texture of the light in the room, which he could distinguish even behind closed eyes. The sun filtered in gently, still pale and weak, but the overhead lights weren't on. David was probably still asleep back at Mycroft's flat.

He heard the soft rustle of paper; Angela was reading something. Not the newspaper – the sound was too sharp for that. Mycroft opened his eyes and found her meeting his gaze levelly. He frowned slightly, eyes skimming over the piles of files that had been deposited around the room, taking up every available surface.

"Compliments of your brother, I should imagine," Angela said.

"He gave them to you?" Mycroft enquired.

"No, they were here when I arrived." She hadn't been there long, judging by her appearance. Her clothing was still fresh and not wrinkled from sitting, and her body did not have the tense appearance that came from holding one position for too long. He suspected she'd been there less than fifteen minutes. "It appears he's turned the case over to you."

"So it would seem," Mycroft murmured. The piles of paper looked suspiciously well organized, which was _not_ Sherlock's doing. Angela could have had a hand in that but she hadn't been there long enough to sort through them all. John was fairly organized, given his army training, but Mycroft couldn't imagine John wanting to spend the time arranging all of this information for his benefit. The doctor had most likely just wanted all of this out of the flat. If it wasn't Angela or John, then it might have been Sherlock's Interpol agent, Gabriel Mitchell, although Mycroft didn't believe that. It was more likely that Agent Mitchell would have kept this information for himself – rather, that he'd have passed it onto the agent handling this case. That meant someone else had assisted Sherlock and Mycroft didn't know who. He would have to find out.

He was somewhat astonished to realize how he was relieved that his brother had done this. Surprised, yes, of course, but also profoundly relieved. Catching this professional killer would be no small feat, especially given that William McKinney had no idea who the man was. But apprehending him would probably also have driven Sherlock to an early grave. Mycroft had just lost his mother. He had no desire to lose another family member, as much as Sherlock probably would not have believed that.

"I don't suppose you've identified him?" Mycroft asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Mm, not yet," Angela replied. "Perhaps if you give me a week. I can follow up with some contacts of mine."

He nodded; her assistance was always valued. He intended to solve this case now, one way or another. But not at the risk of doing to himself what Sherlock had done.

"The doctors feel you'll be well enough to be released by the end of next week," Angela said, setting aside the file she'd been reading.

Mycroft nodded – this presented a significant logistical problem since he could neither walk nor use crutches and he was not about to be caught in some motorized wheelchair. But he sorely missed the comforts of home and was tired of the hospital despite the relative luxury of staying in a private hospital.

"I can stay until school begins again for David," Angela said and Mycroft raised both eyebrows at her. She'd never particularly been patient with illness or injury, except with David. "He's enjoying London," she added, waving a hand vaguely. "Which is good."

Mycroft's lips twitched despite himself. They had discussed David's college education at length and both of them preferred that he attend either Oxford or Cambridge when it came to his university career. He had a stronger chance of getting in from an English college and Angela was less reluctant to move to London than she had been in years previous.

Mycroft suspected he may need a bigger flat in a few years time.

"After that, you're welcome to come to Edinburgh until you're back on your feet."

Mycroft considered this for a moment, then held out his left hand. Angela rose and he folded his fingers around hers, raising her hand to press it lightly against his lips.

"Yes," he agreed. "I think I'd like that."

* * *

><p>Sherlock awoke in the middle of the night to a wholly unusual sensation.<p>

John was sleeping on top of him.

Not entirely, but the doctor's head was resting on his chest, his left cheek over Sherlock's heart, his left shoulder tucked in under Sherlock's right arm. His lips were slightly parted and Sherlock could feel the soft, warm exhalations through his silk pyjamas. John's right arm was curled protectively over Sherlock, resting on his waist. The sensation was odd – he liked the feel of it, of course, but he was also uncomfortably aware of how much more easily John's hand encircled his waist.

Still, Sherlock felt warm for the first time in far too long. Warm and secure. Their bed no longer felt large and empty, nor did John's presence make him feel tense and uncertain.

They still had a good deal to work through but had both agreed on enough for one night. That had been shortly after midnight. Changing and getting into bed together had been somewhat strange – it was a familiar routine they should have performed without thought, but they were both hyper aware of the other.

Sherlock knew John wanted to have sex and he himself was not entirely opposed to the idea. But nor was he entirely comfortable with it. John had walked out on him twice. He'd had no idea if or when John was coming home after the second time. It had hurt him to lose his husband like that, even for a short period of time. He had lost his mother permanently a few months ago. Losing John on top of that had been debilitating. He had said as much to John, since John wanted to know these things. It had made the doctor frown and feel guilty and berate himself silently. Sherlock didn't revel in John feeling guilty – he just wanted John never to do that again.

They'd fallen asleep facing one another but not really touching other than clasping hands between them. But at some point in the night, Sherlock had rolled onto his back and John had snuggled up against him. It was a pleasant sensation. Sherlock raised his right hand and combed his fingers into John's hair, studying his husband's face in the near darkness. At the contact, John shifted somewhat, tilting his head back slightly, murmuring some incoherent word.

There was something John had to know, Sherlock decided. Immediately.

"John," he whispered. John's features pinched and relaxed and he exhaled a soft sigh. "John. Wake up."

"Mm?" John asked, shifting a bit and stretching as he blinked himself awake. "Sherlock? What is it?"

"You were wrong about your appearance."

John's brow furrowed, creasing a small vertical line into his skin. Sherlock reached up to smooth it away and John's expression softened again.

"What?" he asked.

"The other day, you said that you were not much to look at. You were wrong."

John shifted so that he could better see Sherlock and the detective felt the doctor's brown eyes searching his face.

"Your colouring – your hair and eyes – may be fairly typical, but that certainly does not mean you're unattractive." He leaned over somewhat awkwardly and managed to place a kiss on John's lips. "In fact, you're beautiful."

John paused a moment, then his lips split into a smile and he gave a soft chuckle.

"You think so?" he murmured.

"No," Sherlock said. "I know so."

John chuckled again and Sherlock felt the reverberation from John's chest in his own.

"Thank you for telling me that," his husband said quietly. Sherlock nodded and lifted John's right hand to his lips, pressing a kiss into his palm.

"Go back to sleep," Sherlock said. "You have work in the morning."

"All right," John agreed sleepily. Sherlock stroked his fingers through John's hair until the doctor's breathing deepened and slowed again. Then he snuggled a bit closer to his husband, closed his eyes, and drifted back to sleep.


End file.
